


speech is silver

by Tyranno



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Ableism, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Non-Consensual Body Modification, mute!damen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-01
Updated: 2018-09-09
Packaged: 2019-05-16 20:49:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 29,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14818596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tyranno/pseuds/Tyranno
Summary: Damen is a pleasure slave.And pleasure slavesdon't speak.





	1. i have no mouth

The largest of the gifted slaves, Ambassador Guion of Vere noted, looked more like a warrior than a slave. He was easily a head taller than Guion, with broad shoulders and a head of tightly curled, thick black hair. His shoulders shifted against his taut bonds, barely constrained. The slave shivered against his bindings.

“Oh him,” Lady Jokaste said, noticing his attention, “He hasn’t been trained yet.”

The slave was bare from the waist up, save for a covering over his mouth. Pale yellow silk was wrapped the lower half of his face, tight like bandages. There was a shadow over his mouth that Guion realised was old blood.

“He certainly… stands out,” Guion said, diplomatically, “What happened to his mouth?”

Lady Jokaste smiled, coldly. “The rest of these slaves are multi-purpose, but Damen here is a pleasure slave. And pleasure slaves don’t speak.”

In that moment, the slave fixed his eyes on Guion.

The slave’s eyes were burning with such hot, dark fury it made the hairs on the back of Guion’s neck prickle. They reminded Guion of a ship he’d seen ruined by storm—the wild way the ocean had forced it over, the wood disintegrating and the unstoppable weight of the water drawing it under.

The slave wasn’t shivering, Guion realised. He was shaking in rage.

 

*

 

Damen was pushed to his knees. He winced as his teeth jarred painfully and shifted his mouth. There was no way he could hold his jaw that felt comfortable. He was keenly, painfully aware of absence of his tongue.

“An Akielon grovelling on his knees,” the prince of Vere said, silkily, “How fitting.”

Damen’s dark eyebrows knitted together. His throat ached savagely. He had not enjoyed being drugged, but it was sweet relief compared to this.

“I want to speak with him,” the prince said, waving a hand, “Remove the gag.”

The handler removed the gag immediately. Damen could not spit, so swallowed the taste of old fabric.

“Your highness,” Guion started, carefully, “if I might suggest—”

Laurent raised a hand and Guion felt silent. The prince’s attention was singular, focused entirely on Damen’s face. On the rest of his mouth, the flatness of the underside of his jaw. The prince bent, not quite kneeling, and stretched out a hand.

The prince’s touch was revolting. Damen felt the cold curl of his fingers on his cheek, not gentle but… restrained. Laurent’s thumb pushed into his chin, trying to push his mouth open.

“Open your mouth,” Laurent ordered.

Damen refused, muscles tightening.

Laurent slapped him.

Pain burst into the back of Damen’s throat like he was pressing a hot coal there. A thick warm liquid filled his mouth and he realised the stitches there had stretched. He tried to swallow it back but that only made it hurt more.

His mouth fell open in defeat.

The prince stared into his mouth. Blood pooled in the well behind his bottom teeth. It rolled over his bottom lip and stained the clean, perfect nail of the prince’s thumb.

Laurent’s expression shifted, the sharp lines of his mouth softening slightly. A look almost like pity cross his face.

Damen sunk his teeth into Laurent’s thumb. The prince flinched and tried to pull his hand away but Damen’s jaws only tightened. Blood stained his teeth, but for once, it wasn’t his.

The handler kicked his head and his mouth snapped open, releasing Laurent. The blow was so hard it made his head ring and his vision swim. Pain burned in the back of his throat. If his stitches had not torn before, they definitely had now, and blood flowed steadily into his mouth.

Damen could not spit, so instead he bowed his head with his mouth hanging open like a dead dog’s. Scarlet dribbled over his jaw and splattered into his lap. All eyes were fixed on his gory, hanging mouth. Blood soaked through his loin cloth and coated his thighs, a hot wetness like he had pissed himself. Damen had never felt so ashamed and exposed in his life.

Laurent stood up, cradling his wounded thumb to his chest. “Take him away,” he ordered.

 

*

 

Damen was visited by a physician who tended to him cautiously. Damen had no intention of biting him, and tried to make himself less frightening, which was hard to do while covered in blood. The physician informed him in halting Alkeilon that there was not much he could do—He could not bandage a tongue. Or the stump of one, to be exact. Instead, he simply spread thick liquid over the back of his mouth to aid the clotting and dull the pain. Damen was glad he couldn’t taste it.

When the physician had left, they let him eat.

Damen was famished. Without a tongue, he could not move the food around his mouth to chew so instead had to use his fingers. His guards on the boat had to unbind his hands to let him eat and, intimidated by his size and his silence, often did not let him finish his food and restrained him before he had his fill.

Eating was frustrating. Every time he touched the stitches he was rewarded with a dull throb of pain. He had to tear the crusty bread into tiny pieces and hold them his mouth until they were soft enough to chew gently to avoid jarring his stump. It was so slow-going the servant that waited for the empty plate to be returned left, asking the guard to fetch him when he was finished. It was lucky Damen had nothing better to do.

Finally, plate finished, Damen felt exhausted. The fatigue came on him in an instant, heavy and grim. He crawled into his sheets, pulling them over his head.

When he slept, he dreamed of nothing.

 

*

 

Sometime during the night, he was shaken awake. Damen touched the hinge of his jaw gingerly and blinked.

Lit torches were being set into the brackets that lined the walls, casting blazing light on his small room. The remnants of a dark dream still clung to the slave. Damen fixed his eyes on the man that stood at the foot of his bed. The Prince stared back, cooly.

“Get up,” The prince said.

Damen did not move. One of the guard snatched him by his elbow and hauled him to his feet.

“Can you understand me?” The prince asked, in Veretian.

Damen stared at him dully. Most of the Veretians had assumed he was simple as well as mute and he was in no hurry to disabuse him of the notion.

A muscle in Laurent’s jaw jumped but he didn’t challenge him. He pulled a handful of plain sheets from his servant’s hands and showed them to Damen. Quills and ink bottles had already been placed on his small desk.

“I want you to write down your answers to my questions,” Laurent said, sharply.

Damen had no desire to communicate with the stuffy prince, let alone painstakingly slowly scribe his thoughts while Laurent talked lightning fast over him. He continued to watch him with dead eyes.

Laurent slammed the papers on the desk, “I know you can write. There are callouses on your fingers from holding a quill.”

Damen shook his head sharply. He mimed swinging a sword.

Laurent’s eyes flashed, “So you can understand Veretian.”

Damen froze. Anger bit at him.

Laurent took a step towards him, apparently unafraid. He ran a finger over the side of Damen’s neck. The scar there was puckered, pink and new.

“Why did they silence you?” Laurent said, slowly, like he was talking to a simpleton. “How did you get that scar? It must have happened at the same time.”

Damen’s eyes grew dark. He remembered a knife in his neck, his brother pinning him to slit his throat, Jokaste’s sweet and poisonous voice cutting over his shouts, _I have a better idea…_ Laurent apparently noticed his discomfort and his eyes brightened. He wouldn’t take his hands off Damen and continued to stroke long lines across his jugular.

Damen itched to snatch Laurent’s hand away, but didn’t want to risk another jolt to his mouth. The anger that had been hot and bubbling like in his heart like boiling tar rose through him. It irritated the back of his throat. His fingers twitched, wanting to curl into fists.

“Who cut out your tongue?” Laurent asked.

Damen boiled. He shoved past Laurent, ignoring the shouts from the guard. He snatched a quill up and tore the cork from the ink bottle, slamming the quill inside. He scratched the wet quill across the paper. Finished, Damen crossed to the other side of the room.

Laurent stared down at the paper. The quill’s ends were splintered and left streaky, blocked strokes. Only one word was written.

 _KASTOR_.

 

*

 

A touch in the bath, two fingers against the small of his back to brush away a soap sud, and Laurent had Damen dragged out. Laurent watched them bind the slave to the whipping cross. There was a kind of dullness in the prince and he didn’t feel as vindicated as he thought he would. He felt cruel.

The lash of whip drew the first noise Damen had made on Veretian soil.

He screamed.

The whip cracked against him again. Blood splattered in the dust.

His voice was quaking and strange, unused for so many weeks, throat still inflamed and swollen. Stitches stretched and blood filled his mouth again, giving his bellows a wet noise. Between strikes, he shook with hacking coughs, trying to clear blood from his throat. The noises spooked even the servants, who were used to hearing whipping. It sounded like something dying.

It chilled Laurent, but for a different reason.

He touched the soft skin under his jaw and wondered if his uncle would ever make good on his promise to cut out his silver tongue.

 

*

 

Damen spent the next few days in a daze. His throat was thick and prickling. It felt like his back was aflame.

A physician treated him gingerly, changing bandages and filling his mouth with thick, cold herbal ointment. Some angelic soul at the palace kitchen had switched his meals to yogurts and thick creams so he didn’t need to sit up very long to eat them. Without a tongue, he could drain the bowls in barely a minute and settled back down.

Nobody talked to him.

The prince was the only one who ever talked directly to him, and he hadn’t visited in weeks. The rest of the Veretians directed questions over his head to the physician or the guards, or simply didn’t talk in his earshot at all.

Sometimes it felt like he’d lost more than his voice. It felt like he was ceasing to exist.

 

*

 

Damen sat in the garden, wet grass tickling his hands. Mud was collecting on his bare knees, slick and cold, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. If he had thought Laurent was a good talker before, it increase tenfold at court. Laurent himself had discarded him for the moment, gone to wonder around the gardens without him.

A boy padded towards him. He couldn’t have been older than twelve, with fine, clear skin and gems woven into his hair. He was painted and dressed like a pet and Damen remembered him from after the horrible wresting match. That night had seemed more like a nightmare than anything else, and Damen had tried his hardest to put it out of his mind.

The boy led another slave on a thin chain, an Akielon with fine features and thin, decorative gold shackles.

“My name is Nicaise,” the boy said, sharply, “You’re not important enough to refuse me. Even if you were, you’re not now—your master is impoverished.”

Damen stared at him, bemused. It was strange to imagine ever caring even a little bit about Veretian court politics, let alone moves with disadvantaged Laurent.

“The Regent sent me to find the prince,” Nicaise said, “Where has he gone?”

Damen watched him, eyebrow raised, and pointed towards the audience chamber.

Nicaise glared hotly, “Do you think I don’t even deserve your words? Impudent slave—I can see why the prince had you flogged!”

Damen let his mouth fall open.

Nicaise flinched back. He blinked, staring deep into Damen’s mouth, horror brightening his eyes. It took him a moment to find his voice again. “I’m going to look for him. Stay here!”

Nicaise dropped the slave’s chain and the slave obediently stood still, watching him go. The slave was pretty, with fair colouring and burnished gold hair.

Damen closed his mouth. The slave continued to watch him.

Damen pointed to himself, to the slave and then pressed the sides of his index fingers together.

“We are both… Akielon?” The slave guessed. Damen nodded. The slave smiled, “I suppose it’s nice to see a familiar face.”

Damen pointed at him.

“Oh, my name’s Erasmus,” The slave said. Damen smiled.

The slave knelt beside him, golden chain clinking. He looked like he was on the brink of saying something, but didn’t. Damen frowned and beckoned.

Erasmus bit his lip. Slaves were trained to understand both verbal and non-verbal commands, and so read Damen’s gesture easily. “I hope you don’t mind me asking,” The slave said, “but did that happen in Vere or Akielos?”

Damen frowned and pointed behind himself. Akielos.

Erasmus nodded.

Damen frowned pointedly at Erasmus and raised an eyebrow.

“What is it?” Erasmus asked.

Damen pointed into his mouth and then to the ground. _Would that happen here?_

“I-I...” Erasmus went pale, “I enjoy my service to the Veretian court. I only thought—...”

Damen beckoned again.

“I know there was a silent slave aboard the ship,” Erasmus said, looking down, “and I know you had been flogged. I thought, perhaps that had been a test that you had...”

Erasmus’s robes had become disordered and had ridden up over his thigh. There was a welt there, angry and thick. Despite himself, Damen reached out and touched it. Erasmus flinched.

Damen closed his eyes. He could feel anger burning like tar in his chest, rising to heat his face and scorch his throat. Right now, however, his expressions were one of the very few ways he had of expressing himself. He could not afford to frighten Erasmus away with an angry glare.

Expression neutral, Damen beckoned again.

“I-It was… on the first day. A test of obedience,” Erasmus said, very quietly, “I was ordered not to make a s-sound.”

Damen’s eyes were hard. He pointed at himself and then Erasmus, and clasped his hands together. He tried to channel his meaning through his expression.

Erasmus frowned.

Damen breathed very deeply, dragging cold air into his lungs. He wasn’t angry, but disappointed in himself. He longed for the days when he could express himself perfectly and quickly, without fears of being misunderstood or ignored.

Damen held out a hand, and, after a moment of hesitation, Erasmus took it.

With a sharp tug, the slave fell against him. Erasmus tensed, confused.

Damen hugged him.

Slowly, Erasmus relaxed. It was warm, with Damen’s arms around him. He was warm. The embrace was tight, but comfortable. He felt safe. For a single, ludicrous moment, Erasmus felt the urge to cry. Damen buried his face into the crook of Erasmus’ neck. A slight dampness spread across the shoulder of Erasmus’ tunic, and Erasmus found he was not alone in the urge.

 

*

 

Much later, Damen awoke among crushed pillows and disturbed silken sheets to find Laurent’s cool blue gaze on him. Laurent watched him like a hawk watches a mouse.

Damen bowed. His forehead pressed into cold silk.

“This is new,” Laurent said.

Damen kept his head bowed.

“Up,” Laurent said, sharply, “Why did you request my visit?”

Damen straightened up and pulled sheets of paper from under his pillow. On it was written: _I have something to ask of you. It’s a bargain._

“Something to ask from me,” Laurent repeated, eyes narrowing, “As if you have anything to bargain with.”

Damen flipped the paper over. _My obedience_.

Laurent tilted his head.

Damen paused for a moment. There was tension in the atmosphere. It felt like he was play fighting with a tiger. He changed to the next sheet. _Anything you ask of me, I’ll do it. Any humiliation, any performance._

Lauren looked at him, “And in return?”

_The slaves in the regent’s retinue. They are being tortured and mistreated. Please help them._

Laurent’s perfect eyebrows drew together, “Why does it bother you?”

Damen floundered. He hadn’t predicted being asked that. The urge to help them had been so powerful and consuming—it hadn’t occurred to him that a slave wouldn’t feel that. A slave wouldn’t assume things could be changed.

Damen pointed at his throat and held a fist out, as if holding an invisible dagger. He turned the imaginary blade towards himself and stuck it in his mouth. Then he shook his shackles.

“Because it happened to you?” Laurent asked, quietly.

Damen nodded. It was close enough. 

“You over estimate my control over my uncle,” Laurent sighed.

Damen pointed at Laurent and tapped his temple. _You’ll think of something._

Laurent’s gaze was unreadable. He was silent and still. His shoulders tensed and something sharp surfaced in his expression. “Your obedience is not worth anything,” He said, leaning down. His cold fingers pressed into Damen’s windpipe, “You’re broken.”

Damen forced himself not to shift back and his expression to stay neutral. He was walking a tightrope—one misstep and it would all be lost. Damen held the prince’s gaze, unflinching.

Laurent finally moved back, regarding him with cold, sharp eyes.

Damen reached behind him and pulled out the last sheet of paper. He knew that, voiceless, he was less valuable a slave as he might otherwise had been. Laurent enjoyed taunting him, and when he couldn’t complain it lost some of its shine.

Damen held the folded sheet of paper in the space between him and hesitated. It was not something he ever thought he would offer anyone freely, let alone an enemy. It was demeaning, even more so than fighting in the ring again, even more so than obedience.

But it was the only thing he had left. He unfolded the paper.

Laurent read the paper. He paused, and read it again. Damen could tell it appealed to him: the cruel look was back in his eyes.

_I will dance for you._


	2. Nightingale

Damen sat in the one of the empty marble rooms in the palace, legs folded under him. Cold spread through his shins.

The servant who sat before him was nervous and jittery, pecking at the pots of paint that sat between them. She was young, with thick brown-grey hair that was pulled into a heavy braid, scruffy and knotted at the ends. She looked like she had Vaskan blood in her from the hair, but her manner was all Veretian.

Finally, the servant picked up a paint brush and advanced on him.

Damen caught her wrist. A glob of gold paint dripped onto his hand.

The servant looked between the paintbrush and Damen, pale-faced. He shook his head, pointing to one of the other pots of paint. Not gold.

Black.

 

*

 

“An Akielon dance?” Torveld echoed. He shifted in his seat, upsetting a pile of cushions by his feet, “Really?”

Laurent nodded. He tried to keep his expression pleasant, but his smile kept slipping off. Torveld, now on his sixth cup of wine, didn’t seem to notice.

“I’ve seen it only once before,” Torveld said, and paused to guzzle some more wine, “when I was a young boy. It’s very rare, you know—for a foreigner to see it.”

Laurent resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He had heard of the dances. It seemed to be spoken of as almost mythical—but to Laurent it sounded like a dumb courting game. Akielons would dance for each other, like birds.

“How did you convince one to perform?” Torveld asked, hushed. His breath smelled of sweet wine.

“I don’t have to convince him,” Laurent said, darkly, “He’s a slave.”

Torveld frowned, “Slaves don’t dance. It’s against the code.”

“He’ll dance for me.”

The servant in the corner of the room strummed her harp. Her hair was unbound and flowed to the floor, a bright, flashing brown like the rapids of a river. The chords buzzed against her long nails.

“It’s starting,” Torvel whispered, excited. Laurent nodded.

The music picked up gradually, so slowly it was almost irritating. He motioned to the musician to speed up, but her eyes were closed and her head bowed. The music was sweet and unfamiliar, rising like birdsong.

Damen stalked in. His feet made no noise on the cold marble, his shoulders were thrown back and head held high.

Laurent’s mouth went dry.

The gold of his collar and shackles were the only colour Damen wore. A strip of black paint across his face threw the white of his eyes into sharp relief. Swirls of dark colour crested his shoulders, only a shade darker than he was, only visible when the light hit them right.

Even now, Laurent realised, he was dancing. His whole body shifted to the music as he walked, shoulders rising and falling very slightly.

Damen wore a black silk robe which caressed his sides, the folds moving and changing as he walked. Pitch black scales were painted up both arms. Laurent had seen Damen wear much less, but somehow the way the silk hem pulled up minutely as he moved, revealing another slip of olive-brown skin, left him breathless.

The music stopped and so did Damen. It was as if his heart beat in sync.

Damen was still as a startled deer, head raised. The white of his eyes was startling. In one smooth movement, Damen released the clasp of his robes. Black silk fell away like water, pooling at his feet.

Harpsong picked up again, fingers skittering across the strings.

In tandem, Damen lifted to his toes, one arm raising and swinging down as he turned, leg kicking out. He twisted and leaped, landing into a run, a ceaseless bound across the cold marble.

Except it wasn’t normal running. Laurent leaned forward despite himself, eyes fixed on Damen. Every footfall hit in time with the music, as if he had been born to dance to it. His strides were open and swinging, designed to be watched.

Damen stopped suddenly, head thrown back as if in ecstasy. He spun on his heel, white eyes flashing, shoulders raised in mock-surprised—and his eyes fixed on him.

Laurent.

Damen dropped low. Where before, his dance had been light, it was now predatory. He prowled, slow despite the quickening tempo of the music.

Laurent heard Torveld try to say something, but couldn’t make out the words. Even the music seemed to dim. His attention was singular.

Damen slunk towards him. Every change of his smooth, dark muscles highlighted a painted swirl but Laurent couldn’t follow the pattern. He strode under the hanging lantern and the light fell directly on him. His skin seemed to glow.

With a jolt, Laurent noticed just as how close Damen was getting. Damen did not stop advancing and he did not hesitate. As he approached, Laurent could see Akielon symbols painted into the broad side of his thighs, but he couldn’t connect them with anything.

Laurent had never been afraid of Damen, not really—but right now, panic threatened to overtake him. Would he really attack him? How long would it take for the guards to notice it wasn’t part of the act? Laurent knew, dimly, how important dances were to Akielons, but would he attack over something he had freely offered?

The music swelled to a fever pitch. Laurent felt like he was under a spell. The shift of Damen’s muscles were like those of a hunting animal, controlled and perfect.

Damen’s hands landed on the arm rests of Laurent’s chair with a slam. Laurent’s vision was filled with him. This close, he could smell him: the salt of his skin, the bitter charcoal of the paint. He could feel the warmth that rolled off him.

Damen advanced, looming over him. Laurent didn’t realise he was shifting away until his head hit the back of the headrest. His eyes were hot and dark. Damen moved even closer, teeth gleaming.

Laurent tilted his head back, baring his throat.

For a moment they waited in stillness, Damen’s teeth and Laurent’s throat bared, while the music pounded and pounded.

Damen slipped back, rising to his full height and slinking backwards.

Suddenly, the mood changed. Damen’s gaze was dull. His movements mechanical. The harp continued, but it was now irritating, like the buzzing of cicadas. Torveld continued to laugh and jeer, cheeks flushed pink, but Laurent shifted back in his chair.

Whatever spell he had been under before, it had lifted and Laurent was left cold and slightly sick. He had the strange, inexplicable feeling that he had just been rejected.

 

*

 

That night, after the revelries and wine, after the careful manipulations of plans and weighted barbs, Laurent slept under thin silk sheets. And he dreamed.

He dreamed of tanned skin, scaled to the eye but silky to the touch. He dreamed of swirls, patterned flesh under him, around him. He dreamed of black eyes. He dreamed of heat, fuelled by the anger of a beast. The anger of a man.

He dreamed of smooth black scales spreading over broad shoulders and following the line of a curving spine. In his dream, he followed them down.

 

*

 

The next day, Torveld was gushing. Laurent had made him swear not to tell anyone about Damen’s dance, and the pact between them made Torveld feel more familiar with the prince than he ought. He was pink and giddy, drunk on more than wine. He would start various snippets of information about the dances only to cut himself off or get distracted.

“You know, Akielon nobles train f-from birth—” Torveld said, and hiccuped, “They design the dances themselves, with various moved passed down through… through families.”

Laurent nodded amiably. It was easier to keep up the pretence of being interested when the person he was trying to impress was inebriated.

“A servant’s dance is the shortest. A couple, unpractised moves...” Torveld said, and frowned. A though was clearly working its way across his mind. It was slow going. “You know… I’ve n-never heard of a dance that long before.”

Of course he hadn’t, Laurent reasoned. It was a prince’s dance. The gift he had been given was priceless.

Laurent extracted Torveld’s hand from his shoulder, “It’s a slave’s dance. There’s no president for them.”

Torveld nodded, wobbly. “He’s not m-my type but—he is so beautiful.”

Laurent made a murmur of agreement, mind elsewhere.

“Did you see the way he was moving?” Torveld said, voice quiet, “It was like he was an animal.”

Silently, Laurent disagreed. For all his feral grace, Damen was entirely human. That was the problem.

 

*

 

Damen sat in the royal tent, amusing himself by trying to determine the various foods they would eat later based from the smells that drifted around. Dew soaked through the fabric floor. Laurent and Torveld were off hunting somewhere, and Damen would have given anything to join them. But it wasn’t like he had much left to give.

A hound pushed past him, wagging tail smacking the side of Damen’s head. The dog bounced around, yapping and a servant chased it off.

“Damen,” Someone whispered.

Damen straightened up, looking around.

Erasmus sat on a gilded cushion, hair styled back into crisp waves. He beamed at him, eyes bright and childlike. “It’s Damen, isn’t it?” He said, “I had to ask Torveld.”

Damen raised a hand in greeting.

“You arranged this, didn’t you?” Erasmus said, glowing. “When you hugged me, I didn’t dare to think…” Erasmus pointed at himself and then at Damen, and then clasped his hands together. “This was supposed to mean protect, right?”

Damen nodded, grinning.

Erasmus beamed back. The corner of his eyes crinkled, “‘Damen’ suits you. I never met the crown prince Damianos, but I imagine he would be a lot like you.”

Damen shook his head. He pressed his hands to the side of his head with his fingers making the spikes of a crown and shook his head again.

“You… didn’t like the prince?” Erasmus asked, eyebrows furrowing.

Damen shrugged, pointed to himself and then gestured to his own face. He gave Erasmus a broad grin and a thumbs-up.

“You’re more handsome than he was?” Erasmus interpreted, and then flushed. He looked around hurriedly, like the King was about to step through the bushes and defend his brother’s honour.

Damen laughed, a scratchy, rare sound.

 

*

 

Two nights later, Damen was rudely awoken in the dead of night. Torchlight burned his eyes.

“Up!” A guard said, not waiting for him to follow the order and yanking him out of bed, “You’ve been sent for. It’s the prince.”

Damen scrambled to his feet, letting out a grunt of confusion, which was ignored. He gestured that he wanted a better explanation, but nobody bothered working that out either. Reluctantly, Damen let himself be dragged down the stone corridor. The night was dark outside the window, the sky a deep blue like velvet.

Damen was marched down the corridors and deposited outside the prince’s chambers. Light spilled from under the door, warm against his bare feet. There was no use delaying it, he supposed, and pushed the door open.

Laurent looked up, startled.

The prince’s chambers were dimmer than he had seen them before, low-lit. It gave the room an intimate, gauzy effect. Silk gleamed in the torchlight.

Damen sensed something was wrong when the guards pushed in after him, jostling him. There was something strange about Laurent’s eyes, too dark, pupils too dilated. Damen cast his gaze about, spooked.

The guard at his side drew his sword. Damen darted forward, putting distance between him and the guard. The guard, noticing his defensive stance, advanced on him, swing the sword to slice him in two.

Damen snatched a tall, lit candlestick from the table and, narrowly avoiding the blade, tossed it into the guard’s face. Hot wax splashed into the guard’s eyes and he screamed. Damen used the distraction to kick the sword out of his hands and run him through with it.

Bracing his foot on the guard’s body, Damen pulled the sword out and advanced on the second man, who, only just spotting Damen, swung hurriedly at him.

It was a sloppy swing. Damen avoided it and stepped inside the guard’s range and slammed the sword through his throat. The guard crumpled and fell, sword bouncing across the stone.

Finally, Damen turned his attention to the rest of them.

The guard was kneeling, with Laurent’s knife at his throat. Laurent’s hand was buried in the man’s hair, holding his head up and his throat open.

The other guard was sprawled on the bed, already dispatched by Laurent. The last perpetrator was about to join him.

Damen banged the sword on the ground to get Laurent’s attention and shook his head vigorously.

“Shut up, Damen,” Laurent said, sourly.

Damen banged the sword again. The sound was dull and hollow. They needed to keep him alive to interrogate—but Damen had no idea how he’d even start conveying the message.

Laurent slit the man’s throat.

Damen grunted in anger and took a step towards him.

“Stop! Don’t come any closer,” Laurent turned the knife on him. Dark blood shone on the blade. It was an Akielon blade, made in the traditional way and hilt still bound in fresh leather.

Damen froze. Slowly, he set the sword down and kicked it away. He lifted his hands and stretched them out, showing empty palms.

Laurent laughed bitterly, “You want me to trust you just because you’re unarmed? How stupid do you think I am? A brute like you doesn’t need weapons.”

Damen took a step towards him.

Laurent launched at him, but Damen was ready for him. They collided, and he almost lost his footing, but bracing himself against the cabinet. The knife was close to his throat, but Damen’s hand around Laurent’s wrist stopped it coming any closer. They struggled like that for a long moment.

“Let go of me,” Laurent ordered.

Damen shook his wrist slightly.

“Let go!” Laurent snapped.

Damen twisted his grip and pushed, and the knife dropped with a clang. Damen released Laurent and he stumbled back, breathless.

“Why don’t you just attack me, brute?” Laurent snarled, “I’m not going to warm up to you. Stop playing faithful servant and get a knife and—”

“No!” Damen snapped.

Laurent startled. The noise was garbled and strange—but unmistakable.

“I—” Damen tried, but it came out sounding like ‘uh’. He gritted his teeth. He rattled his shackles and pointed at the dead bodies of the guard. He showed his empty hands.

Laurent scowled.

Damen showed Laurent his bare hands again.

“You can stop doing that,” Laurent said, glaring, “I know you weren’t involved. You’re not stupid enough to try something like this.”

 

*

 

Damen took off after that.

They caught him in a brothel in the southern quarter. He was dragged back to the palace, hands lashed behind him, and thrown in a cage.

Later, they brought him food and left him to eat it before retying his hands. From the guards’ chatter, he understood that a court hearing was being held about the attack—but Damen wasn’t invited. After all, what use was a mute slave? He could hardly give testimony.

Left alone, suspicion was worming its way through his mind. Laurent was smart. He knew he could have interrogated the guards, but he didn’t. He didn’t because he either didn’t care about what they had to say, or he already knew.

Of course he knew.

The dagger, his presence. Laurent was being targeted—by someone who wanted to start a war with Akielos, and were powerful enough to pull the strings to make it happen. And there weren’t many people who fit those criteria.

Damen kicked the bars of his cage.

The sound was rattling and loud enough to hurt his ears, but the guards ignored him. Damen tried to shout—but it came out like a grunt, a howl.

He could be as loud as he liked—nobody could understand him.

Damen fell into a crouch, defeated. Laurent had next to no allies. He could only trust himself. And he was going to die.

Damen rolled his shoulders, irritation biting at him. It was times like this what he thought of Philomela, and had thought of her often during the last month. She was a character in an Akielon myth, a woman raped by her sister’s husband who then cut out her tongue when she swore to seek revenge on him. Philomela weaves a tapestry to tell her sister what had happened to her, who had then served up the rapist their son in a pie.

Damen shift his weight from one foot to the other. Perhaps instead of an audience with the prince, he should ask for thread and a loom. He was sure that, despite the delay, Laurent would appreciate the effort.

The door at the end of the hall opened, and as if summoned, the prince himself came out.

Laurent stormed towards him.

Damen jumped to his feet, opening his mouth to shout something—but closing it again. He was almost hopping from foot to foot.

“Untie him,” Laurent ordered, coldly.

The guard opened the cage door and released him from his bonds.

Damen pulled his hands away and gestured quickly. He pointed to himself, to Laurent and then clasped his hands together. He repeated the motion.

“You want me to take you with me?” Laurent said, incredulously.

Damen nodded.

“Why?” Laurent asked, as if he expected a trick.

Damen curled his hands into fists and mimed boxing.

“I have an army,” Laurent said, “Why would I need you fighting for me?”

Damen tapped his temple and mimed boxing again.

“I have strategists too,” Laurent said, voice hollow, “Why would I need one who can’t even tell me his ideas?”

Damen paused for a moment, thinking. He tapped the side of his sternum, right over his heart.

Laurent scoffed and turned away.

“Waht!” Damen yelped, “buh ish’s oney—”

“Be quiet,” Laurent snapped icily, glancing back at him, “I can’t understand you.”

Damen went very still. He watched Laurent, eyes big and dark and silent. Very slowly, his shoulders dropped and he seemed to sag in on himself.

Laurent couldn’t help but feel like he had extinguished something small and fragile. He turned and stalked out.

 

*

 

Radel woke him, a day later.

Damen had been having a dream about turning into a nightingale, like Philomena had, in the end. He dreamed of flitting through the barred window, stretching pale brown wings in the blue sky, and flying home.

“Get ready,” Radel said, “The prince had decided to take you with him.”


	3. Quill

3.

The warm sun shone straight onto the troops. The thunderous rumble of hoof-beats was comforting and regular as a heartbeat. Brilliant green grass stretched in front of Damen, torn and uprooted by hooves.

The sky was a deep vermilion in the setting sun.

Damen felt like he could breathe for the first time in months. Each crystalline breath was cold and fresh, and it felt like he was clearing weeks of dust and dried blood from his throat. He sat tall, the horse riding strong under him, powerful hooves beating the earth.

Chastillon rose ahead of them, a single spike against the red sky. It reminded Damen of a tree that had been struck by lightning, black and bare.

The front of the troop slowed as they reached the base of the spire, filing towards the stables. Damen brought his horse into a trot, following the flow of horses. His good mood was like a bubble of warmth in his chest.

Damen dismounted and handed the reins to a stable boy.

“Damen, isn’t it?” Someone asked.

Damen glanced around.

A tall man with narrow shoulders fixed him with a steady look. It was Jord, a member of the prince’s guard. “Can you read and write?” Jord asked.

Damen nodded.

“I need you to take an inventory of our supplies,” Jord said, “and then report it to Rochert.”

Damen nodded, passing him and heading into the compound.

Nobody paid him any mind. He stood out in the ranks, but news of his silence had already spread.

 

*

 

Laurent summoned him that evening.

The prince was no less regal in light hunting gear than he had been in silks and high-collared shirts. More so, perhaps. His crisp golden curls were tied back in a high tail, leaving high cheekbones and a great expanse of pale skin to the air.

“Well?” Laurent asked, pushing a sheet of paper across the broad desk. A pot of ink and a quill already rested on the edge closest to the door.

Damen frowned, picking up a quill and turning it over in his fingers. He raised an eyebrow.

“What do you think of my men?” Laurent asked, straightening, “I know you’re curious about them. I want to know your first impressions about their structure.”

Damen uncorked the ink and dipped the pen inside. _Why not ask them yourself?_

“No, they’re my uncle’s men. I can’t trust them to be honest.”

_And you can trust me?_

Laurent watched him, sharp blue eyes studying every inch of his face. “Don’t make me ask twice.”

 

*

 

The silent slave wandered between the ranks. His hulking figure was slow, his gaze always directed away. He tended to the horses, cleaned armour, checked inventory. He kept to the edge of gatherings, head tilted like he was listening for something. Probably waiting on the Prince’s whistle, no doubt.

Soldiers stopped conversation when they heard him coming, but after placing him, they resumed conversation. After all, who could he tell?

 

*

 

Laurent watched Damen as he wrote. The slave normally wrote as quickly as he would have spoken, the scratch of the quill a soft, pleasant sound. But when he wrote battle strategies and training advice, he paused often, thinking hard between each sentence. His dark eyes read and re-read each passage, each diagram.

The first battle strategy Damen came up with was sound. Laurent scoured the lines again and again, looking for the catch, the pitfall—but there wasn’t one. It was logical, simple. He stared down at it. It was almost beyond belief.

Damen wrapped his knuckled against the table, wondering why he was taking so long over it.

“It’s good,” Laurent said, still staring down at it.

Damen made a low, musical hum. Laurent glanced up at him. Damen’s smile was small and warm. He looked straight into Laurent’s eyes.

Damen would not have survived as a Veretian, at least not a Veretian courtier. His face was too open. Every emotion blazed a path across his face.

There quickly came a point where they didn’t need the quill for general conversation. Laurent would make a comment, Damen’s face would telegraph his reaction, and Laurent would respond to that. It was another kind of language, a baser, quicker one, like Laurent was reading his mind.

Laurent kept Damen’s plans folded at his bedside, locked with the rest of his more valuable personal effects. Laurent took them out, sometimes, just to read over them. The lines were tight and neat. Nothing was crossed out. Damen stood by every word.

 

*

 

By the third botched swing, Damen was at the end of his rope. He stood, snagging a broad sword from the rack, swung it against a domed metal shield.

The bang startled the sparring soldiers apart and they scrambled across the dirt, standing to attention.

Damen stepped into the arena, shifting his grip on the heavy sword. He pointed to the closest soldier and made a point of standing with his feet shoulder-width apart and digging his heels in. He held the sword in both hands and made a slow, meticulous swing.

The soldier stared at him, bewildered.

Damen repeated the swing, harder, blade biting into the dusty earth.

The soldier took a step back, watching the blade warily.

“He’s trying to correct your swing,” Jord said, from the sidelines, “I was about to do the same myself.”

The soldier glanced back at Damen and tightening his grip on his sword.

Damen took a step forwards and pried at the soldier’s fingers. The soldier eventually relented and let his hands be moved around, rearranged until he carried the weight more evenly.

Satisfied, Damen stepped back, and swung again.

 

*

 

Damen poked his head through the tent flaps. He nodded a Hello.

“Damen,” Laurent said, giving the impression of smiling without actually smiling. His shoulders relaxed.

A thin dusting of dirt clung to the bristles of Damen’s stubble and he scratched at it. He leaned against a cabinet.

“I have something for you,” Laurent said, and pulled out a thin leather bound book. He passed it to Damen.

Damen turned it over in his hands, heavy eyebrows knitting together. He opened it and scanned the first page.

“I think you can relearn to use your voice,” Laurent said, “I want you to practice by reading aloud for me.”

Immediately Laurent sensed that he’d made a mistake. Damen straightened up. His jaw tightened and his shoulders drew back.

“I’m not doing this to mock you,” Laurent said, quickly.

Damen shook his head sharply and tossed the book back on the table. His eyes were unreadable. His face, usually so open, was closed off entirely.

Damen turned and left.

 

*

 

Every day, Damen trained the soldiers personally. He was silent, and yet expressive. The soldiers understood him once they learn what to look for. If they didn’t, he simply moved them into the positions he wanted like they were giant dolls.

It was slow going, but he could feel the soldiers warming to him. There was a kind of kinship between them.

He discovered why when he overheard two soldiers talking outside the armoury. He paused, listening carefully.

“I still don’t feel right about learning from an Akielon,” One of them said.

There a scoff, the other rearranging their armour with a clink of metal on metal. “Come on. You really think he’s going to be loyal to a nation who did _that_ to him?”

 

*

 

It was night. Fire flickered in a pit dug between the tents, leaving dancing imprints on the back of Damen’s eyes. His body was battered and worn, a particularly nasty graze on his left elbow still warm and prickly with freshness. He lay in the cold earth, feet stretched towards the fire, eyes fixed on the sky.

Jord loomed above him, holding two bowls of food. “Are you hungry?”

Damen sat up, brushing dirt from his back. He accept one of the bowls.

“You ought to be quicker getting food next time,” Jord said, sitting down next to him, “They won’t have any left if you leave it this late.”

Damen hummed and drunk the soup. It was hot and meaty. He drunk it like water, finishing it in a moment. It left a pleasant warmth in the pit of his stomach.

“Is your tongue really missing, or do you just prefer not to speak?” Jord asked.

Damen opened his mouth and wiggled his stump at him.

Jord nodded, “I thought so.”

Damen set the bowl beside him and stretched out again.

“If you mind me asking, why did they do it?” Jord asked, “I heard they did that to liars in Vere centuries ago, but nothing more recently than that.”

Damen considered it for a long moment. He pursed his lips and made a kissing noise, then mimed a crown, finally wiggling his fingers to show long hair.

“You… kissed a woman in the king’s harem?” Jord guessed.

Damen nodded. It was close enough.

“Theomedes?” Jord asked.

Damen shook his head.

“Kastor?” Jord frowned, “He must have gotten to that pretty fast.”

Damen shrugged. He let out a long, deep sigh.

 

*

 

Laurent and Damen talk most nights. Laurent is quick and sharp, thinking and over-thinking, Damen takes his time and is measured, careful. Sheets of writing pile up under Laurent’s hands and he waits for yet more, impatient. Damen keeps him waiting, making sure everything is thought of before passing it over. Laurent reads it and asks for more, changes ideas, suggests new things. Damen starts writing again.

And always, always, the leather-bound book between them, a testament to things left unsaid.

 

*

 

Laurent caught the riderless horse, looping a rope around its neck and steering it back to camp. It was flighty, strong, the tendons in its neck surface when it whipped it head around indignantly.

One look at Damen, and Laurent knew what he is thinking.

Damen pointed at him, held up a single finger, and mimed slitting his throat. Laurent glared, but nodded.

 

*

 

Much later, Damen lay beside the hearth in the inn. His side which was closest to the fire was sweaty and hot, while his other half was uncomfortably cold. The chill of Vere was unpleasant and, not for the first time, he wished the sun would be a little closer.

Laurent watched him.

Pretending Damen was the master had been surprisingly easy, despite his handicap. The man was blessed with such a warm, open expression and a booming, easy laugh, that Laurent doubted any of the men in the inn would even remember he hadn’t spoken.

Laurent rolled over and stood up, walking over to the fireplace to flop down next to Damen. His bright curls collected in waves over his collar bones.

Damen opened his eyes and regarded him evenly.

“Thank you for coming with me,” Laurent said.

Damen graced him with a small smile. He pointed at his smile and then at Laurent, raising an eyebrow.

“Is it bad that I am in a good mood?” Laurent asked, raising an eyebrow back.

Damen shrugged.

Laurent’s smile faded a little and was replaced by a tentative, curious expression. His pale eyebrows drew together. There was a shadow in his expression.

“May I ask you a question?” Laurent asked, quietly.

Damen noticed the change in mood and rose onto his elbows, frowning slightly. He nodded.

Laurent rose to his feet in one long stride and walked to his belongings. He dug through them until he retrieved a thick wad of paper, ink and a quill and returned with them, setting them down in front of Damen.

Damen pulled back the sheets and folded them under himself, so the ink wouldn’t stain if it spilled. With a knife, he sliced the end of the quill to sharpen in, flicking the crusted cut off ends into the fire, where they popped and sizzled. He unscrewed the lid of the ink and hovered the end of the quill over it. He waited.

Laurent settled down opposite him. For perhaps the first time in his life, the prince hesitated.

“You told Jord you were enslaved because you lay with a woman in the king’s harem,” Laurent said, “but I know it has to be more than that.”

Damen was still for a long moment. He didn’t look up at Laurent.

“What happened?” Laurent asked.

Damen’s muscles tensed. An emotion rose in him, something like anger, something like fear. It tensed his muscles and tightened his spine. The quill tip quivered.

“What did you do to deserve… this?” Laurent pressed, moving a fraction closer.

Damen forceably relaxed his hand enough to dip the quill in ink and scratch it across the paper. The writing was shaky and too large, a far cry from his normal small, clear print.

_Nothing._

“Do you hate him?” Laurent asked. The interest in his expression seemed cruel. It reminded Damen of palace boys who used to catch birds and stab at them with the blunt end of spears until their ribs cracked, curious but never kind.

Damen found it hard to consider the question. Kastor was jealous, he’d always known that, jealous and cruel and angry and vicious. Especially now, he had more reason than he needed to feel dark things for him. Did he hate Kastor? _Could_ he hate Kastor? Even now…

 _No_. Damen wrote.

Laurent didn’t like the answer. He rose to a sitting position, expression sour. Perhaps he thought Damen was lying. His eyes flashed in the dim light, like shining gems.

“Why can’t you hate him?” Laurent asked, voice rising, “How can you _forgive_ him?”

Damen shook his head, dipping the quill back in the ink.

_I haven’t forg—_

Laurent interrupted him, snatching him by the shirt collar, knee almost knocking over the ink pot. “He cut out your tongue!” Laurent snarled, voice hard and sharp, “He—he _killed_ a part of you!”

Damen pulled back a little, dark eyes almost sad.

Laurent relaxed his grip on his shirt. Laurent’s face seemed caught between two feelings, balanced between anger and confusion, leaving his eyes wide and skin leached of colour. He looked lost. He sat back on his heels, desperately searching Damen’s face for something.

When Damen had enough space, he reached between them to pull a sheet of paper up and re-wet his quill. With a few short, clean strokes, he wrote a message.

_Hating him would not solve anything._


	4. Speak

Vaskan women arrived at camp with messages for Laurent. They were directed towards his tent by the soldiers.

The women were tall and broad shouldered, but not mannish. Their hair was long and heavily braided, swinging over rough leather jerkins. The woman at the head of the troop had silver woven into her hair which winked in the sun.

Laurent did not dismiss him, so Damen stayed, but he did not learn anything.

The Vaskan woman spoke in a particular, coarse, quick Vask which sounded to Damen garbled and alien. Laurent matched it in kind.

If Damen had known the future, would he have learnt more languages? He had never been one to study. He had the unpleasant feeling that if some oracle had stumbled into his halls and revealed the future to him in startling clarity—he would have laughed. Kastor, cutting out his tongue? It seemed like something out of a saga.

The Vaskan concluded their business and nodded at Laurent, who nodded back. The women left the way they came, not even glancing at the soldiers who stared at them.

Damen turned to leave but Laurent caught his wrist and he stopped in his tracks. He looked back to the prince, one eyebrow raised.

“I have a favour to ask you,” Laurent said, quietly.

Damen looked back at him, measuredly.

“I want you to improve my Akielon,” Laurent said, pulling his hand back.

Damen started, eyes narrowing.

“I’m not joking,” Laurent said, “You’re a native speaker. I need someone to improve my vocabulary and hopefully help me get rid of my accent.”

Damen watched him.

“Please,” Laurent prompted.

Damen relaxed. It was almost funny, the weird relationship between them. Who asks a slave for permission? He nodded.

Laurent smiled.

 

*

 

Several days later, there was a dark, moonless night. The air was cold and crisp.

The Vaskan camp was comfortable and dimly lit, and Damen lay in a woman’s arms for the first time since Jokaste. Warmth radiated from her.

The woman rose above him, long hair undone and spilling over her shoulders like dark tides, glinting red in the peaks and curls. Her nose was Vaskan, straight and long, and her smile was broad and bright. Her hands explored Damen’s chest, smoothing upwards.

Damen’s mouth went dry when she touched his jaw. After a moment’s hesitation, he opened his mouth.

Instead of disgust, the woman perked up on seeing his missing tongue.

“I didn’t know you were a religious man,” The woman said, in thick Akielon. She smiled and ran hands over his ribs, long nails nicking his skin.

Damen caught her elbows and held them, hoping his expression would communicate what he wanted to say.

“Oh, you didn’t know?” The woman frowned, “Worshippers of the Horned Goddess are silenced. They live in the Ver-Vassal mountains. I worked in the garrison near there. They speak in gestures.”

Damen tilted his head, raising an eyebrow.

The Vaskan women put two fingers to her lips and swung her hand down. “That means ‘Thank You’.”

A grin burst across Damen’s face and he kissed her, hard. She made a small noise of surprise, before returning the kiss.

 

*

 

Laurent looked up when heard someone approach the tent, but relaxed when he saw Damen poke his head through the tent flap. Damen’s hair was knotted and mussed and he only wore a pair of loose-fitting breeches. Pink scratch marks ran like tiger-stripes over his spine.

Damen flopped down next to Laurent, pulling covers over himself. The man was practically glowing. It looked like a weight had been lifted from his shoulders.

“Good night?” Laurent asked.

Damen fixed him with a grin powered by such warmth and hope it made Laurent’s heart stutter.

 

*

 

“Panopla,” Laurent read.

Damen shook his head.

“Pano—,” Laurent squinted at the paper, “Panopl _ah_.”

Damen shook his head again, frowning slightly.

Laurent scowled back for a moment before schooling his expression and trying again, “Panopla. Panapla?”

Damen ran a finger over the word on the paper. _Panop_ — he nodded. Laurent had that down. Damen shook his head and reach out, his hands hovering an inch from Laurent’s mouth.

Laurent glanced between Damen and his hands, before nodding.

Damen pushed Laurent’s tongue back so it touched the roof of his mouth, _ee._

He lifted the tongue so only the tip touched the roof of his mouth, _lee._

Finally he opened Laurent’s mouth and pulled the tongue out so it rested flat on Laurent’s bottom teeth, _ah_.

A light pink dusted Laurent’s pale cheekbones. Saliva coated Damen’s fingers and dribbled down Laurent’s chin. Flushing, Damen removed his fingers from Laurent’s mouth.

Laurent wiped his mouth discreetly with the back of his sleeve. He ran his tongue over his teeth. His mouth tasted of Damen’s skin, salty but not unpleasant. Damen looked sheepish, like he had been caught doing something he shouldn’t. Laurent smiled.

“ _Panoplía_ ,” He said.

 

*

 

Damen emerged at midnight to wander around the sleeping camp. The air was freezing and wind was harsh, but the moon was so beautiful. Trees shifted and creaked in the wind like the earth was breathing.

Apart from the moon, the night sky was completely dark. Damen made his way through the camp, avoiding hap-hazard tent posts and discarded tarp. The dewed grass dampened his heels.

“Kicked out of bed?” Jord asked.

Damen glanced up. The captain sat on a huge horse. It was too dark to see the beast as anything but black, the fine muscles of the animal shifting near-imperceptibly, a very dark blue in the moonlight.

Damen shrugged.

Jord smiled, “I’m patrolling the camp. If you want, you could join me.”

Damen nodded and followed him to the stables where he retrieved another horse. Damen mounted his horse and felt much better in an instant.

Jord led the both of them out into the perimeter at the front of the camp. Here was the only place in the camp where the grass under their horses’ hooves was not trampled and compacted, and it would only be this way until morning. When they left tomorrow, there would be grazes on the earth, pulled out grass and pockmarks left by tent-poles.

Damen followed Jord, lulled by the easy movement of the horse underneath him. It was familiar. The wind tugged at his side, heavy and cold. His jacket flapped.

“I don’t mind this watch-shift,” Jord said quietly, voice almost lost to the wind, “at this point in the night the camp is so quiet. It’s like you’re the only person who exists in the whole world.”

Damen said nothing. One upside of his predicament was that he wasn’t expected to reciprocate small talk.

Ahead of them, the land sloped slightly downwards. Houses scattered across the land looked like boulders, every light already snuffed out. A dense knot of bushes shuffled slightly and lay silent. Damen’s horse snorted and its tail flicked.

Jord came to a stop, scratching behind his horse’s ear. He looked out across the sleeping land. “Aquitart is the last Veretian hold before the border,” He said.

Damen followed his gaze to the dark horizon. The shining white city of Ios couldn’t have seemed further away. Damen’s horse tugged at the reins and he released his grip, letting the animal bend to tear at the grass.

“I expect you miss it,” Jord said, “your home, out there.”

Damen turned his gaze away and breathed deeply. Home. He had no home, not any more. He pulled his horse and set off along the track, hoof-beats muffled by pristine grass.

 

*

 

Laurent looked through the papers again. He could chart the whole campaign from Damen’s neat, clear handwriting. He had read the lines over and over to the point where he can near recite every single one on command.

The thing that bothered him was that they were too good. Even soldiers who can write couldn’t write like this. The use of vocabulary, the complicate syntax and clarity of thought speaks only of hours and hours in the library with a personal tutor.

Laurent folded the papers back together. Damen wasn’t hiding. Or perhaps he just wasn’t hiding particularly well. Laurent wondered why the distinction feels significant.

 

*

 

It was the start of a long night, which had followed a long day.

Damen leaned on the edges of the battlement, on the uneven granite. His body was beaten and worn, the odd warmness of a graze covering one knee. It was a nice feeling.

The sky was dimming, the darkness spreading across the dome of the sky, fringed with the last fading vibrancy of day. The trees were pale grey and barren, their canopies merging with the black sky. Wind slipped through the forests, quick and cold.

A pale rider came around the line of trees, horse picking its way easily across the dark ground. An expensive riding cloak swept across his thin shoulders and flowed over the horse’s flanks, embroidered sparsely but beautifully with reds and golds. A scarlet cuff of fine silk lined his throat. In the evening light his golden hair looked white.

Damen bowed his head briefly.

Laurent smiled, just as brief, and dismounted. He looked tired. A bruise was pushing through his cheek, a hint of dark colour. Damen shifted a little to grant him some room and the prince came to his side. Laurent leaned heavily on the battlement, cloak covering every inch of him.

There was a long moment of silence. The trees shifted.

“My father hated Akielons,” Laurent said, quiet and distant, “he called them all brutes, all vicious and cruel.”

Damen nodded. It was something that had been following him since he had arrived in this country. That he was something less than human, something bestial. He supposed his voicelessness only fed into that.

“I can only imagine what he would have thought of you,” Laurent glanced at him, “What he would have thought… of both of us. I know it would be something I wouldn’t want to hear.”

Damen felt a sharp stab of affection.

There was something in Laurent’s demeanour that had sparked it. Laurent was a complicated man, and like most complicated things, he was also fragile. Every part of him was carefully balanced and controlled. When the mask slipped ever so slightly, Damen glimpsed the weariness all that control had left him with.

Laurent’s gaze was drawn to the sky.

The stars were coming out, barely visible. It was a clear night and they came out like pin-pricks in fine blue-black silk.

“Auguste preferred rural towns,” Laurent said, “they were quieter. Less people recognised him.”

Damen watched him out of the corner of his eyes. His chest was tight.

“He looked forward to going on progress every other year,” Laurent rested his head on his hands, eyes still fixed on the heavens, “He liked travelling.”

Damen opened his mouth—and closed it.

He wanted to say something. Anything. He wanted to say: _I didn’t know._ He wanted to say: _I’m sorry._ He wanted to say: _I didn’t know, I’m sorry, I wish it could be different._

But he couldn’t.

The pressure of the unspoken words rose in him. He gripped the stone of the barracks. He briefly considered running back to his tent to get paper and a quill, but he knew that wouldn’t work. It would be over by then. All the words he spilled out onto paper would be trite and meaningless.

“Auguste liked the stars, but he never learnt the constellations. That, he said, was my job,” Laurent’s eyes were very far away, fixed on the north star, “It’s why I didn’t like the border towns so much. There are too many trees and not enough sky, in my opinion.”

Damen gritted his teeth. The pressure in his chest was nearly unbearable.

“Look, there’s Rigel, the hunter,” Laurent lifted a long white hand to point upwards.

Damen clasped his hand.

Laurent glanced back, startled. He looked at him, wide-eyed.

Damen opened his mouth but grimaced. He lifted his other hand, like he wanted to start miming—but how could he? It was too complicated. What sort of charade could he used to express that he never wanted to hurt Laurent more than he already had? He wanted to say: _Even if I leave, even years from now, you will have a friend, an ally on the other side of the border._

Hopelessness threatened to overtake him. He gritted his teeth. He felt trapped. He felt defeated.

Laurent’s quick eyes scoured every inch of his face. He was no longer wide-eyed, instead his expression was one somewhere between curious and concerned. Laurent moved closer.

Damen left Laurent’s hand slip out of his grasp and closed his mouth. His breathing picked up and he winced, like he was in pain.

Laurent looked up at him.

Pale fingers found the scar at the corner of Damen’s mouth. It flicked upwards, like a quirked lip, and matched one on the inside of his cheek, the one that took his tongue. Perhaps it was left by a clumsy wielder, or perhaps Damen struggled.

Laurent’s light fingered explored Damen’s jaw, the rough stubble, the warmth of his skin.

Damen could feel Laurent’s breath on his skin—there and then gone, there and then gone. It was the welcome and clear light of understanding in Laurent’s eyes that finally let him relax. Damen’s hands found Laurent’s hips and drew him closer, acting on instinct alone.

Laurent kissed him.

Damen kept his mouth shut and Laurent did not relax—and yet, the kiss was kind. It was soft, and it was warm. And the kiss said: _I understand._


	5. Please

5.

It was not a difficult decision.

Laurent had hated Daminaos of Akielos for too long to change his mind. He had spent most of his formative years hating him. It did not matter how cruel Kastor had been, or how gentle the former prince was. Laurent’s world had been rendered to rubble and he lay the blame for that at the other man’s feet.

And that feeling in Laurent's chest, like something was tearing apart... it was a feeling that was familiar, and one he was long used to ignoring.

 

*

 

Laurent watched his soldiers move through Ravenel from his window.

Damen’s captaincy had been short lived, but massively successful. They had been victorious and taken an entire fort in an afternoon, an evening. Of course it had been. He had known Damen for too long to suspected anything but fierce, undeserved loyalty.

He could see the pinpricks of torchlight from the battlement. They looked like fireflies, busying around in lines. Laurent could feel the tensions in his troops even from his barracks, the cautious pride of victory, the blade’s edge of anticipation.

He hated himself for thinking it—but his mind was tugged by the possibilities. If he or Damen had been someone else, if they had met in another life… Laurent could have drowned in ‘what if’s. In his experience, they tended to drag the mind into strange places.

There were two sharp knocks on his door.

Laurent spun around on heel, shaken out of his thoughts.

Damen stood in the doorway, unease clear in his expression. He glanced behind him and raised an eyebrow.

“There has been no mistake,” Laurent said, silkily, “I sent for you.”

Damen took a step back, eyebrow still raised.

“This isn’t a trick,” Laurent said, stalking towards him, “We made a deal. You are leaving tomorrow. Who’s to say I don’t want to try you, just this last time?”

Damen lifted his head. He had the look of a man assessing whether ice would hold his weight. He shifted his weight like he was about to turn away, but he didn’t.

Laurent stopped a pace from him, eyes bright, “I don’t have any other intentions.”

Damen lifted his hands and Laurent almost flinched but he moved too slowly to mean any harm. Damen pressed his warm palms to Laurent's cheeks and pushed his finger tips in his blond hair. His hands were so large they could encircle Laurent’s head entirely. He turned the prince’s head slightly and looked over him.

Distantly, Laurent recognised the look. Damen was inspecting him. It was so similar to one his mother have given him, when he was picked on by noble boys but refused to tell her if he'd been hurt. It was a caring, intimate look. It was not a look he deserved.

A painful emotion rose in Laurent, a shade away from anger. "Don't look at me like that. I know what I'm doing," he said. _I know who you are_.

Damen watched him for a long moment. The light was so dim that his dark eyes looked black.

Laurent kissed him.

Damen’s eyelashes fluttered, and he kissed back. His mouth was still shut.

Laurent broke away from the kiss and slipped a hand inside Damen’s shirt, tugging it further open. Damen breathed in sharply through his nose. Laurent’s fingers skimmed around warm, rough flesh, finding the sharp jut of a hip bone and the soft skin inside it. He slipped further down, where the leather was tight against him.

Damen’s hand curled around Laurent’s wrist and for a short, embarrassing moment, the prince thought he was about to be rejected. Then he saw the look in the man’s eyes.

Damen lifted Laurent’s pale hand to his mouth and kissed his ring finger, right on the knuckle. He held Laurent’s wrist carefully, like handling something precious. His eyes drifted shut when he pressed his lips to the palm of Laurent’s hand.

Laurent’s mouth went dry.

Damen pressed his nose into the inside of Laurent’s wrist, breathing in very deeply like he was trying to memorise his scent. Laurent stared at him. Dimly, he registered Damen’s other hand loosening the fittings of Laurent’s shirt, but the prince was mesmerised by Damen’s long lashes and the hot, dark look he sent Laurent from under them.

Laurent allowed himself to be led backwards until they reached the bed. He hesitated, before starting to allow Damen to tower over him.

Somehow Damen sensed his discomfort and rolled over, pulling Laurent on top of him easily. Laurent found himself sitting tall over him, thighs on either side of Damen’s stomach. Damen was still tugging at Laurent’s shirt, but it was difficult from his angle so Laurent shrugged it off on his own, working a finger under the tie that held his collar close and discarding that too.

Damen’s clothes were, thankfully, much easier to undress. Laurent picked at the shirt, exposing more and more tan skin. Warmth rolled off the man like a furnace, like he carried the heat of his country with him when he had left.

Laurent pressed a cool hand to Damen’s chest and was rewarded with a muffled gasp.

Laurent’s keen eyes flickered upwards. Damen’s mouth was shut tight, the tensed muscles visible even in the low light. Something twitched in his temple. Narrowing his eyes, Laurent pulled at the last fastening of Damen’s trousers. He lifted his weight onto his knees so he could push them down, over the man’s hips, so he was exposed to the air.

Damen shivered, a shuddering tremor that went across his whole body like a high-strung stallion.

Laurent lifted onto his knees and reached down to cup a long pale hand around the warmest part of Damen, earning himself a muffled groan.

“Open your mouth,” Laurent ordered, curling a hand around Damen’s jaw. His thumb pushed into his chin.

Damen’s eyes widened a fraction. Laurent was reminded of the last time he had requested that, a time that seemed so far away from here, from the warmth of the moment. Something painful prickled in his chest.

Laurent’s grip loosened, brushing his fingers over the stubble of his jaw. He tucked his hand behind Damen’s head and ran a thumb over the hinge of his jaw.

“Please,” Laurent asked.

Laurent’s other hand curled around warm flesh and Damen made a motion that was almost a flinch, a faint groan escaping behind parted lips. His teeth were gritted.

Laurent lifted both hands and pressed his palms to Damen’s cheeks. He carded his fingers through soft, dark hair. There was a tuft of hair stuck to Damen’s sweaty forehead and Laurent brushed it back. He stared down, into Damen’s dark eyes.

“Please,” Laurent asked again, “I want to hear you.”

There was a moment of stillness so long Laurent thought Damen was going to refuse.

Then, like it was the hardest thing in the world, like he was moving mountains, Damen relaxed his jaw. There was a careful look in his eyes, a twinge of fear. His lips parted and a quiet breath escaped.

Laurent smiled. He reached down and returned his hand to the warm place between Damen’s legs.

Damen leaned back slightly, letting out a soft “ah” noise. It was simple and pleasant.

 

*

 

When the sun came streaming through the tall windows, Damen woke. He rose slightly, so that his broad back blocked the dawning sunlight from falling on Laurent’s face and waking him.

Laurent lay sleeping beside him. Occasionally, he shifted in his sleep. He breathed lightly and evenly, his eyelashes flickering gently, eyebrows drawing together a fraction and relaxing. Across his back the corners of his golden hair caught the sunlight and glowed like a lit flame.

Damen arranged the pillows so he could rest his head again. Laurent’s spine was flush against Damen’s front and the cocoon of warmth between them was irresistibly comfortable. This part of coupling he had missed with a painful ache, perhaps even more-so than sex.

In the early dawn light, the warmth of the bed and the soft regular breathing of his partner, Damen thought to himself that there must be no greater peace on earth.

 

*

 

Nicaise and Aimeric were dead.

It shouldn’t have mattered. Laurent had known Nicaise for a few summers at most and Aimeric even less than that. Whatever kinship he had felt with them, it had not been reciprocated and its loss should not have troubled him. God knows death had taken more from him in the past.

Laurent turned on his heel and stalked away from Aimeric’s former chambers. Damen did not follow him. This, at least, was a mercy.

Laurent closed the door firmly and yanked at the complex ties that held his riding leathers taut across his chest. It was hard to do it without a servant, harder still when his mind was very far away. His skull felt tight and hot and his thoughts were foggy and distant.

He felt rotten. He feel rocked to his core, like he had been dealt physical blows. He was used to compartmentalising his feelings, he was used to appearing callous and putting on an indifferent exterior—but for the first time in his life it hadn’t worked.

Damen knew.

Whatever skill Laurent had picked up to read Damen’s thoughts from the quirk of his eyebrow or the set of his jaw—the other man had learned in kind. From the way Damen watched Laurent address the messenger with his dark, warm eyes, Laurent knew the man saw him for what he really was. A silly little boy who was only playing at being strong, at being brave.

There was shuffle outside his door and they opened, dragging the corners of the silk curtains with them.

Damen stepped through the doorway, closing the doors behind him. His expression was unspeakably gentle.

Laurent felt a hot flash of hate.

In that moment, Laurent remembered want it felt like to want someone dead. How dare he? How pathetic for the only shred of kindness in half a decade be granted by an enemy. He stood up, back straight and eyes narrowed.

“Weren’t you leaving?” Laurent asked, sharply.

Damen leaned forward slightly. His dark eyes watched Laurent, eyebrows knitted together. Slowly he pulled a sheet of paper from his pocket and unfolded it for him.

_Don’t go to Charcy._

Laurent’s eyes flicked over the paper and the anger in him stoked, hot and acidic, “You’ve in danger of outstaying your welcome.”

Damen tapped his temple with two fingers and shook his head.

“I don’t care what you think,” Laurent snapped, “I should have known it was too much to expect you to follow even the simplest of orders.”

Damen ignored him, lifting his paper again.

Laurent glared at him and turned on his heel.

Damen reached for his hand but Laurent snatched it away. “Stop!” Laurent snarled, “I’ve quite enough of your _touch_.”

For a split second Damen froze, eyes wide. His recovery was quick but not quick enough.

Laurent’s anger was a cruel hunter. Weakness was irresistible.

“What’s that look for?” Laurent asked, in mock-surprise, “Surprised that even as god's gift to both men and women your magic carnal powers are a bit wing-clipped now? You disgust me.”

Damen strode towards him, hackles raised.

“And the noises you would make!” Laurent snarled, wild and mindless with emotion, “It was like lying with a—”

Damen’s hand clapped over Laurent’s mouth, fingers gripping his jaw vice-like. His other hand gripped the nape of Laurent’s neck, tight like holding a disobedient dog.

Laurent stared up at him. The grip was so hard he could barely breathe.

Damen looked down at him.

Slowly, weightily, Damen shook his head. His dark eyes were deep and unfathomable. Silence pounded in the prince’s ears. He held Laurent like that for a moment longer, snared and so entirely at his mercy.

Then he released him.

Laurent stumbled back, knocking into the table hard and sending the contents scattering. His face throbbed, hot with embarrassment.

Damen stood above him, but his eyes were elsewhere. His gaze trailed along the mess Laurent had made, the complex folds of a fallen silk curtain, spilled ink sinking into cotton under-shirts, hundreds and hundreds of carefully written papers. He turned, head first and then the rest of him followed, and he padded slowly out of the room. He made no sound, even as he closed the door behind himself.

Laurent knelt where he had fallen.

His shins were cold. His throat felt raw and dry, like he was breathing in smoke. Each breath came through weak and thin.

Shame clawed at his throat. It was like he was a child again. He had always had a knack for picking out insecurities and dragging them out before people. It had been dramatic and rewarding—until he did it in front of his mother and she looked at him with an expression of such shock and disappointment. _Why would you even_ say _that?_

Shaking started up in Laurent’s fingers and spread up his arm. He punched the floor.

Anger burned at the back of his throat.

How dare he?! Was he so weak that Damianos could manipulate him to the point where he could reduce to Laurent to rubble not once but twice.

Laurent snatched the clusters of carefully written papers and threw them into the lit hearth. He stalked to his bedside and unlocked his safe box with shaking hands and pulled out the others, snatching the papers laid out on the table and tossing them all on the fire. Flames spread over them hungrily, the cracks and pops loud as snapping wood.

He seized the corner of a thin, leather-bound book on the desk to toss it along with the papers—but he stopped dead.

Laurent lowered the book, heart hammering.

The book was old and worn soft at the corners. He opened the front cover, and with a careful move of his thumbnail, loosened the hidden end page so it flopped open. The ink was faded and weak, the handwriting was old-fashioned and formal. _My dearest brother…_

Ice spread through his stomach. He stumbled back and dropped into a chair. His whole body felt much weightier, as if he was wearing shackles. He bowed his head and thought, soberly, of all the ways a man can be made to suffer.

 

*

 

There was a dark rider on the slopes. His horse pounded across the earth, tearing up grass and kicking up dust. He rode south, parallel to the rising sun. The rider’s pack was full and his gaze was hard.

He was pursued.

Eventually, the dark rider slowed, and allowed his pursuer to catch up. The dark rider slowed to a stop and the two of them met in the shadow of an outcropping of trees. The dappled sunlight gleamed on the pursuer’s honey-coloured hair.

“I should not have spoken to you that way,” The prince said, “I was being cruel. And frankly also it was...”

Damen lifted his head. He gave him a measured look.

“Are you going to make me say it?” The prince asked, narrowing his eyes.

Damen lifted an eyebrow, amusement lighting his features.

“Fine. It was a lie,” The prince said, glancing away, “I only said it because I knew it would upset you. You—you’re very… _talented_ in bed.”

Damen smiled, briefly, before his expression became more serious. He gestured back to the camp, made an upwards motion and gestured in the direction of Charcy.

“I am still going to Charcy,” Laurent answered.

Damen shook his head.

“I have to,” Laurent insisted, “Not because my uncle issued the challenge, but because this is my country. I have to fight for it.”

Damen frowned.

“Damen, I...” Laurent swallowed, “I need you. My uncle knows me very well—we’ve been playing this game for years and years now. But he doesn’t know you. He can’t predict you.”

Silence, save for the wind in the trees. Damen leaned forwards and slipped his fingers into Laurent’s horse’s harness, drawing the animal closer. It obeyed, pacing forward until it was close enough to brush against Damen’s horse’s flanks.

Damen reached forward and cupped the back of Laurent’s skull and drew him closer until their foreheads touched. Damen’s hand slipped down to the nape of Laurent’s neck and he stared into Laurent’s eyes.

Laurent was so close he could only seen Damen. He was so close he thought for a moment their eyelashes might brush together.

“I need you to stay,” Laurent pleaded, “Not forever. For a few days. Just until—until this passes.”

Damen closed his eyes. He nodded.

 

*

 

The fort without Laurent felt like a husk. Soldiers still remained, enough to hold off a decent-sized force, but the halls were emptier and echoing. The walls of Ravenel had stood for two hundred years and Damen felt that age as he walked through them, the ancient strength of stone that preceded him, his father, his father’s father and would remain after him too, over and over through time.

The men prepared in the cold morning. Brilliant blue stretched above their heads, cloudless and unforgiving. A flock of black birds flew north.

Damen rose to the battlements.

The view was immense. Fields stretched out far below him. He watched his men walk around the camp, but a movement drew his eyes.

A red blur spread across the horizon. The thunder of hooves because one long rumble, but that was not what made his heart skip a beat. It was the war horn, a powerful, single note that made the hair at the back of his neck prickle.

That army belonged to Nikandros, the Kyros of Delpha, and his Commander, Makedon.

Damen turned and sprinted to the gates.

 

*

 

Nikandros raised his head when he saw someone walk through the gates. It was a strange man, coloured like an Akielon but dressed in fine Veretian riding leathers, the prince’s insignia blazing over one shoulder. He was too far away to place, but it was clear he was high-ranking. The man pushed an Akielon messenger out of the way and headed towards the troops.

“Let him pass,” Nikandros muttered and his troops parted, allowed the man to make his way across the field.

There was something strange about him. Something tugged at Nikandros’ mind, something about him. He walked like a soldier, a rolling lope like he was used to wearing heavy armour.

Sunlight gleamed in the man’s dark brown eyes and he threw one arm over his head to block the light, a lazy, princely gesture. It crystallised Nikandros’ suspicion. He dismounted hurriedly, sheathing his sword and jogged over.

Damianos met his gaze, smiling briefly. His hair was cut short and brushed back so that his ears stuck out and he was more conservatively dressed than he’d ever been. His shoulders relaxed and he sped up slightly, leather boots shining.

“It can’t be,” Nikandros said, finally reaching him. He touched Damianos’ shoulders almost reverently, like he expected him to crumble to dust. “It’s—it’s not possible. They buried you.”

Damianos caught his hands and squeezed them, grinning enough to show his teeth. There was a new scar at the corner of his mouth which flicked upwards, and when he smiled it distorted his cheek slightly, like a dimple.

“It was Kastor, wasn’t it?” Nikandros asked, holding his hands tightly, “How did you escape—where have you been?”

Damianos frowned slightly, smile fading. He lifted one shoulder in a half-shrug.

“What’s wrong?” Nikandros asked, frowning. He searched Damen’s face very carefully. “Why aren’t you saying anything?”

Damen’s gaze dropped to the floor and he shifted back. His shoulders rose a little.

“What’s happened?” Nikandros asked, desperately, “Please, Damen, speak to me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> x  
> x  
> x  
> x  
> x  
> x  
> x  
> x  
> ....  
> ...[This part of this song was playing in my head while i wrote the ending scene... for obv reasons](https://youtu.be/bCaw_26Z2BU?t=86)


	6. Youth

6.

Damianos thought of his name, spreading through Ravenel, through the border towns and beyond, the flash-fire of rumour. His triumphant, shining return. He could feel the sharp tension of a heel-turn in the men. When the dust settled, he would know where he stood, but not before.

Damen pushed the door open and walked into the small hall. Nikandros turned when he entered, startled.

Nikandros knelt, deliberately. His head bowed, “The fort is yours, my King.”

Damen stared down at him. His heart churned. It had been over an hour since they had last spoken, but Damen could still feel the man’s fingers on his jaw, in his mouth, touching the stump of his tongue so lightly, as if it might not be real. Like it was a trick of the light.

Damen knelt in front of his old friend and gripped his shoulder lightly, rising with him until they stood together, toe to toe. Damen nodded.

“I mourned for you,” Nikandros said, quietly, “I thought you were dead. I made the long walk for you at dawn, with the lit ekthanos.”

Damen nodded again, eyes downcast.

“What happened?” Nikandros asked.

Damen pulled a piece of paper from inside his jacket and passed it over. It was a long account he had written while Nikandros had talked to his forces, detailing what he knew of Kastor’s plot.

Nikandros read it quickly and then scanned over it again. His expression grew darker and darker. “I watched Kastor crowned at the Kingsmeet,” He said, “I should have known. There were questions, but Kastor seemed to have an answer for every one.”

Damen said nothing. He eyebrows were drawn together, like he was bearing a great weight.

“And your tongue—?” Nikandros asked, hesitantly.

Damen waved his hand, ending that line of questioning; he didn’t want to talk about it. Instead he lifted up his sleeve, exposing the shackle to the light. Nikandros’ eyes went wide. He clasped Damen’s wrist and held it to the light. The starburst symbol was etched on the inside of the shackle, sharp and beautiful. The symbol of the Prince of Vere.

“You’re—You’re a slave?” Nikandros’ asked, voice thin and cracked with horror.

Damen shook his head, miming the shackle being opened.

Nikandros stared at him, “I don’t understand.”

Damen shuffled through his pockets for a spare piece of paper.

Just then, there was a shuffle at the door. Makedon stood in the doorway, flanked by the highest ranking Akielons. He stared at the shackle, eyes wide. There was only one thing that shackle could represent.

Nikandros pulled Damianos’ sleeve down and advanced on the banner-men, “You will mention this to no-one. This secret will not leave this room.”

Makedon glanced between the rise in Damen’s sleeve to Nikandros, “Sir, I—”

“Swear to it!” Nikandros said, “Swear that—”

Damen snatched Nikandros’ shoulder, silencing him. Nikandros glanced back at him, startled. Damen flicked his shackled hand, dismissing the banner-men, who all filed out of the room, a little dazed.

Nikandros turned to his friend, “What are you doing? When the men find out—”

Damen raised a hand and Nikandros fell silent. The prince pulled a sheet of paper from his jacket and unfolded it, writing in quick, looping script. _You must never speak for me again. You must never presume to know what I decide._

Nikandros read his reply and nodded, grimly.

Damen fixed him with a serious look and continued writing. _There is no hiding this. I have no tongue. Lesser injustices done against me are not worth covering up._

Nikandros looked like he might protest, but whatever he was going to say, it died on his throat. His heavy eyebrows drew together and he nodded.

Damen breathed out through his nose, relaxing his shoulders. He wrote again, slower, neater. _I apologise, Nikandros. I know it troubles you to see me like this._

“You have nothing to apologise for,” Nikandros said, rubbing the bridge of his nose, “I’m sorry. It’s just… all so different now.”

Damen nodded, gaze lowered.

“Listen, Damen,” Nikandros straightened up, “I have something for you.”

Damen lifted his head, watching him expectantly. It was a look that was almost wary.

“I want you to know that what was done to you does not change anything,” Nikandros said, sombrely, “I still hold the same beliefs I held when you received this at seventeen.”

Nikandros reached into his sleeve and produced something small and brightly polished. Damen’s eyes fixed on it. It was a tiny, finely crafted golden lion. The arc of a tail and the fan of a mane were enchantingly gorgeous. It was the golden lion pin worn by the King of Akielos.

Nikandros pinned it to his front.

“With this pin I pledge my loyalty to the true King of Akielos,” Nikandros said, “You are my King and so long as I live I will see you returned to your throne.”

Damen stared down at it, touching it lightly. He glanced back up at Nikandros, heart surging.

“All that these tragedies prove is my faith,” Nikandros continued, voice quiet. “Where any other man would have crumbled, you have risen from them. It was not your loud voice that assured me of the future of our kingdom. It was your iron spirit.”

Damen’s hands dropped from the pin. He watched Nikandros with dark, soulful eyes. With a sudden burst of movement, he strode forward and engulfed him.

Nikandros hugged back, as tightly as he could. He felt Damen as he was—alive, strong, healthy. Warm. Nikandros buried his face in Damen’s neck. “It is good to see you again, old friend.”

 

*

 

Damen lead his horse towards Nikandros, walking with his shoulders back and head high. Men kept a clear distance. They cast fearful looks.

Nikandros watched him cautiously.

When they had discussed the upcoming battle, Damen had written something very strange. _My soldiers will not readily follow a man who cannot speak. But I do not have to be a man._ At first, Nikandros had thought it was an odd metaphor, perhaps borrowed from one of the long sagas Damen enjoyed but Nikandros had never had the patience for.

Now he saw what he had meant.

Damen wore a wolf pelt. It was actually several pelts sown cleverly together to appear as the hide of one huge beast, spanning his broad shoulders in a deep, honey-flecked grey. White wolf fangs hung over his forehead. Red war paint circled both eyes.

He looked like a barbarian. He looked like a beast.

Damen reached Nikandros and regarded him with black eyes.

Nikandros’ mouth had gone dry. He swallowed. “To Charcy.”

The plan they had devised with Laurent was simple, but risky. Nikandros did not like it. Charcy was a hilly, pocketed trap, sloped and half-backed by forest. It was not a place a sensible man would choose to fight. The Prince of Vere had taken half the force to ride ahead and pin the Regent against his men and Damianos’.

Damianos nodded. To Charcy. He gripped the side of his horse’s saddle and hoisted himself up in one smooth movement.

Nikandros snapped out of a daze he had fallen into and urged his horse forward, to flank Damen. He was careful not to let his horse get to far ahead, but he did not have to worry about calling the men to clear a path. The men parted easily, shuffling back as if worried.

They reached the leading position of the army.

“Men of Akielos!” Nikandros bellowed, “Damianos, the true King, has returned from the dead!”

There was a moment of silence.

Damen lifted his head high, dark eyes flashing. All of him seemed to grow a fraction, the shift of his spine seemed animal and dangerous. His chest expanded, armour glinting.

He roared.

His roar was answered by twenty-four hundred men. Spear butts hammered into the ground and after half a second the war horn joined in, a huge thunderous shaking cacophony. It was so loud, it felt like Nikandros’ head would split.

They charged.

 

*

 

Damen walked through a field of the dead.

Blood had soaked into the wolf-pelt and left it dark and crusted. His war paint was smeared and sweaty. His horse lay dying in the mess of bodies, a spear between the sixth and seventh rib. He shifted the pelt back to uncover his steaming shoulders and stood in the breeze, breathing heavily.

Laurent’s men rested in rows upon rows of fancy, prettily-coloured peaked tents, some adorned with ribbons and banners, some with patchwork wall hangings. The men inside were fresh and intact.

Damen looked at them and felt something harden in him. He touched the scar across the side of his throat.

“Uncle and nephew alike,” Nikandros said, breathlessly. “They send other men to do their fighting.”

Damen relaxed his hand. The bloody remains of the Regent’s banner unfolded slightly, flickering in the wind. He stared down at it for a long moment and passed it to Nikandros.

Nikandros accepted it uneasily, watching his old friend closely. Damen turned and picked his way through the field, heading to where his men were setting up camp.

Nikandros watched him go.

 

*

 

It had been half a day since Laurent had arrived in Charcy. He had not yet heard from Damen.

Laurent spread the map of Akielos over the table again, pouring over it. He had already memorised the landscape surrounding Charcy and had already drawn a few battle plans—but none of them had been vetted by another. All Laurent’s knowledge of leading an army was theoretical and second-hand. Part of him longed for the days when he could just wave a hand and have Damen summoned.

The tent flap opened and Laurent spun around.

Nikandros stepped into his tent. He had the Regent’s banner inside his fist.

“It’s you,” Laurent frowned, before horror flashed through him, “Is Damen—?”

“Alive,” Nikandros said, “Unfortunate for you, I know.”

Laurent relaxed imperceptibly and moved to dismiss him, “Then I have no business with you.”

Nikandros did not move. “Believe me, Prince,” He said, “You do.”

Laurent fixed him with a cold look.

“Maybe, with Damen’s insistence, I can forgive your blunder at Charcy,” Nikandros said, magnanimously, “But that will depend on your answer. I want you to answer truthfully.”

“Depends on your question,” Laurent asked, guardedly.

Nikandros watched him, “Did you cut out his tongue?”

Laurent started, blinking rapidly. He glared, “You think me so barbaric that—”

“Is that really too far for you?” Nikandros interrupted powerfully, taking a step forward. He towered over Laurent, still bloody and worn from battle, “I have talked to your guards, Prince. I know who you are. You have had him whipped, molested, brought low in all ways. Are you trying suggest that is beyond even your depravity?”

“Sounds like you have already made your mind up,” Laurent said, sourly.

“Trust me,” Nikandros said, fingers curling around the hilt of his dagger, “You would know if I had made my mind up.”

Laurent was silent for a moment, breathing deeply. “Did Damen tell you it was me?”

“He won’t speak of it,” Nikandros said, thinly.

“It wasn’t,” Laurent said, “He said it was Kastor.”

Nikandros narrowed his eyes.

“I’m telling the truth,” Laurent said.

“I’ll believe you for now. It’s simply...” Nikandros gritted his teeth, “…it is not in Kastor’s character. He is cruel, but his ways are perfunctory. He is not one for torture.”

“But if not him then—...” Laurent went still. A chill spread through him.

Nikandros ignored him. He tossed the banner onto the table and it clattered, knocking books and ink pots. “Charcy is yours,” He muttered, before turning and stalking out.

 

*

 

Damen did not come to see him the next day either.

Instead, Laurent was forced to communicate him with through messengers sent between tents. It was slow and awkward—there was too much he wants to say that he does not want to commit to paper—but he shied from forcing himself into Damen’s tents. He desperately did not want to be turned away.

He still saw him.

Damen had made himself unavoidable. He rode around camp, wearing that huge wolf pelt and never changed out of his armour. He wore a crown of weaved cypress and grape vine. Nightingale feathers gleamed from his shoulder buckles, oddly pristine against the griminess of his appearance.

He was intimidating and powerful. Laurent heard soldiers on both sides of the camp whisper about him. _Damianos the twice-born_ , they called him.

Once, a drunk soldier had snatched Laurent’s elbow as he was passing, “He’s cursed, you see. If he says a single word, Hades will come back and drag him back to Tartarus.”

“Well,” Laurent had replied, prying the man’s fingers off him, “That’s as good a reason as any.”

 

*

 

One night, Damen returned to his tent to find it occupied.

A woman lay in his bedsheets, naked as the day she was born. Her hair was long, pale blonde and loosely-curled, and her eyes were a gentle sea-green. When she heard him enter, she rose to her knees, not modest in the slightest. She had small, round breasts and broad, soft-looking hips.

“Exalted,” She said, bowing her head. She had a metal collar and cuffs around her wrists and ankles.

Damen felt a wave of sickness. He waved her away.

The slave hesitated and rose to her feet. She bowed again and made to move past him.

Damen held up a hand to stop her, frowning hard.

The slave paused. If she was confused by the mixed messages, her face didn’t show it.

Damen fished a sheet of paper from his things and retrieved a quill, scratching out a quick message. What is your name?

“Myrrha, Exalted,” The slave answered.

_Do you speak both Veretian and Akielon?_

“Fluently, Exalted.”

 _Good. Come back in the morning,_ Damen wrote, _I have a job for you_.

Myrrha brightened and bowed low. “Exalted.” She turned to leave.

Damen stopped her again.

Myrrha looked back at him.

Damen hesitated and drew the cloak from his shoulders. He threw it over her shoulders and clasped it so it worked as a makeshift tunic. He passed her a note: _Have the guard escort you back._

Myrrha bowed again, “Yes, Exalted.”

 

*

 

The whole camp seemed to be gathered in crowds around the hilltop. The split between Akielon and Veretian troops was a clear, yard-wide parting. Banners of both sides were flown, shaking like snakes in the wind.

Damen sat on the oak throne, eyes fixed on the rider who rode on the other side of the clearing. Laurent rode, followed by six troops bearing the starburst banner.

The last time Akielon and Veretian royalty had met ceremonially had been six years ago, at Marlas, when the Regent had surrendered to Damen’s father, Theomedes. The last time Damen had met Laurent, he held him in his arms.

Laurent dismounted his horse and bowed his head slightly. His eyes fixed immediately on Myrrha, who sat at Damen’s feet. His expression was unreadable.

“My brother of Akielos,” Laurent said. Laurent looked at him very closely. His eyes followed the wolf-skin, the woven wooden crown, the feathers.

“Our brother of Vere,” Myrrha said, reading from a paper.

Damen lifted his hand up, palm up, with fingers outstretched. Laurent took his hand very delicately. Laurent rose and sat slowly next to him, on the adjacent throne.

“We have called you out here to witness the joining of two noble houses. This is proof of our accord,” Laurent said, voicing rising clear and true.

“In Vere, it is customary to bestow a gift upon a faithful companion,” Laurent continued, “And in keeping, I bestow this gift to our Akielon allies.”

A Veretian servant stepped onto the dais and approached Damen. In his hands he held a cushion which bore something which shone in the cold daylight.

A whip.

 

*

 

Laurent visited Damen’s tent after the ceremony. His patience had run out. Luckily, the guards recognised him and allowed him in.

Damen sat at his desk. He glanced up when Laurent entered, but his expression was bland and unsurprised. The pretty slave sat near him, braiding her hair. When she saw him enter, she stood and bowed, muttering something in Akielon.

“Damen,” Laurent said, “I need to talk.”

Damen reached lazily across the desk and pulled a sheet of paper from the dozens that scattered his tabletop. He wrote something and passed it to Myrrha.

“Then talk,” Myrrha said.

Laurent glanced at her, “Send her away. I don’t need her to understand you.”

Myrrha glanced at Damen but he made no gesture.

“So she will follow you everywhere, is that it?” Laurent said, “Will you take her into battle?”

Myrrha looked at him blankly.

The silence was driving Laurent insane. Being ignored was like his skin was being sandpapered away. “And what if I was here to discuss something sensitive?” Laurent asked, voice sharp, “When you fuck does she stay in the room to moan on cue? Will she whisper sweet nothings in my ear?”

Damen scratched something out and passed it to Myrrha. “Last time we spoke,” Myrrha read, “You did not seem interested in my touch.”

Laurent’s hackles rose—but he forced himself to calm down. He breathed deeply. “I didn’t mean to abandon you at Charcy. I had no choice.”

Damen glanced over at him and held his gaze. He nodded. His hair was knotted with feathers. Although he didn’t wear the wolf-pelt on his head any more, it still hung behind him like a cloak, the bloodied fur smelling of death.

Laurent catalogued every allegory he wore. It was all designed to appear as aggressive as possible. It was as if to say: _If the Veretians wanted me to be a beast so badly, they can have one._

Myrrha sat expectantly, like she was waiting to be given something. Her feet were tucked under her. With her hair half-braided, she looked like a painting of Hera, her cheeks soft and unblemished and her gaze sweet and demure.

With a jolt, Laurent realised her role was two-fold. Firstly, most obvious, because she was a slave, nobody would doubt Damen’s words weren’t his own. Secondly, she looked as different from Damen as it was possible to be. When she stood next to him, she highlighted every wrinkle, every war-wound, every fierceness in the Prince of Akielos. And that had been exactly what Damen had been going for.

Laurent couldn’t quite pinpoint why the costume made him so uncomfortable. Here was Damianos, the prince killer, the barbarian, the murderer. Here he was, exactly how Laurent had dreamed he’d be, every night since he was thirteen, scowl and all.

“Damen,” Laurent asked, “promise me this.”

His voice wasn’t warm, but it had lost most of its sharpness. That was enough for Damen to turn towards him and regard him with full attention.

“When this is over, you’ll stop all this—” Laurent gestured towards Damen’s costume, “— _pretending_.”

Damen’s quill flicked over his page and he passed it to Myrrha, who was waiting patiently. She spread the paper out.

“When we are both kings,” Myrrha said, “I see no reason for lies between us.”

Laurent nodded, glancing between the two of them, “Thank you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> X  
> X  
> X  
>  **explanation of symbols**  
>  cypress-- mourning tree  
> grape vine / twice born-- allying himself with Dionysus  
> nightingale -- Philomena (see ch2)  
> wolf pelt -- Remus, figure in Greek myth who was raised by wolves & murdered by brother


	7. The hanged man

7.

Laurent expected Marlas to be uglier.

He had expected unburied, five years dead corpses, their exposed ribs a dull yellow. He expected earth pitted with broken lances and rusted shields, tattered banners and scraps of tent fabric. He expected the land to remember those who had died on it; he expected scars.

Instead, Laurent rode over unremarkable grass. The hills were empty and dark in the evening, pitted only by rabbit holes and mole hills. Wild flowers even grew over the hillside in patches. All evidence of the war had been healed away, the earth returning to itself.

Laurent pulled his horse to slow her. Hooves made almost no sound over soft earth.

Distantly, he could hear a second rider following him, heard the flap of a jacket and the ringing of metal clasps.. The rider slowed and came to a stop at his side. Laurent did not turn.

The ruins of the battlements looked almost abstract, the grey sides sunken into the earth. Moss clung to the stone. If Laurent closed his eyes he could imagine the swarm of soldiers like a living sea, crashing together. But when he opened his eyes, all he saw was mud and grass.

Stars spread out above them. It was like the whole earth held a breath. Everything was dark and still.

Beside him, Damen let out a breath.

“Want do you want?” Laurent asked, narrowing his eyes.

Damen was silent.

“Are you here to prove a point?” Laurent asked, shoulders rising, “Or are you here to reminisce? I’m sure this brings back a lot of happy memories.”

Damen shifted, leather saddle creaking. He let the reins slip through his fingers and his horse bowed, reaching down to tear at the grass.

Laurent opened his mouth to say something else—but all that came out was a choked sigh. It was frightening how fast he was de-fanged when he came up against someone who could never rise to his barbs.

Damen reached up and took the wooden crown from his head. He pulled a dagger from his belt and carefully worked the blade through the knot at the back. Damen unwound the crown with deft fingers. Laurent realised, suddenly, that Damen must have woven the crown himself.

“What are you doing?” Laurent asked. He was ignored.

Damen separated the two strands of branch. He tucked he grape vine back into his saddle bag. He dismounted holding the cypress branch lightly.

Soft earth rose around Damen’s sandals. He moved very slowly, almost reverently. The green fingers of branch looked like the barbs of a feather, limp in his hands.

Damen set the cypress into the earth.

He reached into his saddle bag and retrieved a flint. With a few practised motions, sparks shedding onto the cypress and it caught fire.

Laurent’s mouth went dry.

Thin, fragile ribbons of smoke curled from the tiny pyre. The cypress curled, shrinking as the fire consumed it, eating away at the branch. Cypress was a terrible fuel—hard to light, fast burning and very smokey. Its primary use was as a funeral fire, designed to guide wandering spirits upwards, to the stars where they could rest.

Damen knelt.

He sunk slightly, weighed by the armour. He lowered further, leaning forward until he was scarcely a hand’s width from the small fire. Damen pressed his forehead onto the cold earth.

The cypress fire waved in the breeze. The smoke was a dark grey and it shed pale ash. It looked like a little fallen star, with a heart of brilliant red.

Damen talked low and quiet. He sounded strange, as if speaking a language Laurent had learned a long time and had forgotten almost entirely, save for the timbre and tone.

Laurent didn’t have to understand him to know what he was doing. He was praying.

 

*

 

Laurent watched the soldiers move around their tasks, his gaze careful. He didn’t have the experience that Damen had, but he still knew what to look for. The signs of a fractured troop were easy enough to spot—missing food, vandalised tents, stolen property. So long as he caught them early they could be worked out.

Laurent breathed out evenly, watching a soldier heave a box of supplies onto his hip. Another solider was pulling the pegs in a tent so it could be dismantled and packed away. The movements were as regular and predictable as a well-oiled machine.

Laurent was about to leave—when he heard a frightened whimper.

He stood up ram-rod straight, turning slightly to locate the sound.

Another—a half-gasp and a muffled noise of fabric. They came from a tent to his left, one that was supposed to be unoccupied.

Laurent drew his sword and threw the tent flaps open.

Three Veretian soldiers stood clustered around a slave woman who has her arms restrained by a fourth soldier. The woman had a cascade of blonde hair which fell over her face and shoulders. Her chiton had been torn open so it exposed her from collar to hips.

“Your majesty—” the fourth soldier straightened up, dropping the woman’s arms. She sagged.

Laurent raised his sword. “Tell me your names and ranks.”

The men hesitated and told him.

“You’re dismissed,” Laurent said, sharply, “I will deal with you later. This will not be taken lightly—you’re only lucky I don’t run you through right here and now.”

“Your majesty,” One man said, bowing deeply and scurrying away. The others followed him hurriedly.

Laurent sheathed his blade. He knelt next to the woman, “How badly are you hurt?” He asked, in Akielon.

The woman lifted her head and her hair parted. She moved a hand to brush it away from her face.

“Myrrha?” Laurent asked, startled, “What did they do?”

“N-nothing that would make me unfit to serve,” Myrrha said quickly, pulling her hair back. There was a wound at the corner of her mouth which bled gently, in the shape of a boot heel.

Laurent breathed deeply, eyes narrowing. He didn’t have a cape like Damen so had nothing to cover her with. He straightened up and scanned the empty tent. There was only a spare tarp in the corner, which would be comically large and unwieldy as a cloak.

Myrrha moved slowly, lifting the tattered ends of her chiton and knotting them together. They were mostly ruined, scuffed with blood and dirt, but she could lift them up to her collar and loop it through the catch under it. It wasn’t much, but it covered enough of her.

“Come with me,” Laurent said, beckoning her up, “We have to go to my physician. You may not be my subject, but you’re still under my charge.”

“I-I appreciate your kindness, I don’t need a physician, your Grace,” Myrrha insisted, pulling the chiton tighter around her, “I am healthy and need to return to service.”

“Come,” Laurent insisted.

“Your majesty I don’t—”

“Come with me,” Laurent said, “That’s an order.”

Myrrha’s shoulders dropped. Her spirit collapsed, like a rotten log.

Laurent took her wrist, holding her right over the shackle, and pulled her to her feet. She swayed unsteadily for a second, before regaining her balance. Laurent led her slowly and carefully across the camp, heading for Paschal’s tent.

Luckily the tent was empty of patients when Laurent pushed inside, followed closely by Myrrha. Myrrha obediently stepped in front of him to sit on the examination bed.

Paschal took in the scene and went about the task wordlessly.

Laurent stayed in the tent but averted his eyes, allowing whatever privacy he could grant. He felt Myrrha’s eyes on him, like she was expecting some declaration.

“There will likely be no lasting damage,” Paschal said, “No broken bones, no fractures. There are some nasty bruises, but if you apply ointment every morning and night they should heal away.”

Myrrha nodded.

When Paschal was done, he produced a fresh, longer chiton which Myrrha changed into. It reached past her knees and covered her chest completely. Paschal left them, slipping into another tent to tend to other patients.

Myrrha sat on the examination bed, folding her legs under her. She applied the ointment to a bruise on her elbow gingerly. Myrrha really was beautiful, he realised. She had a soft and unassuming gaze, perfect sculped eyebrows and brilliant, bright eyes. Her hair sat in loose coils, like freshly minted gold coins. She was a year younger than he was, maybe more.

Laurent sat next to her. He wanted to say something, to ask about Damen or to reassure her somehow, but he didn’t know what to say. The tent filled with silence.

She spoke first.

“I was your subject once, your Grace,” Myrrha said, quietly. She kept her eyes on her elbow, applying the ointment around the broken skin.

“What?” Laurent blinked.

Myrrha gave him a strange, appraising look, as if she was telling a dear secret. “I lived in Delfeur before… the loss at Marlas,” She said.

“Why didn’t you leave with the refugees?” Laurent asked, “We tried to clear the area before the battle.”

“My family didn’t want to leave,” Myrrha said, “Everything we had was there… we couldn’t bring the mill with us. We never really thought Prince Auguste would...” Myrrha paused, “So when the Akielons came, I... was taken into training.”

Laurent watched her.

Myrrha shifted, raising both hands. She looked closely at the grazes on her fingers, the raised skin in bumps across the side of her hand. There was dirt under her nails and the skin on the end of her little finger had gone purple as a bruise pushed through.

“Life is like that,” Myrrha said, quietly, not looking at him, “You can think you have your whole future sorted out, and then in one moment… it all changes.”

 

*

 

Karthas was empty.

The watch-towers were empty. The hills were bare. Damen’s army were poised to attack a force that didn’t seem to exist.

“It’s a trap,” Nikandros said, dismissing the messenger with a wave of his hand.

Damen watched horizons measuredly. Through Myrrha, who sat in front of him on his horse, he ordered sections to peel off the main force and investigate.

The first watchtower proved truly empty. Damen’s banner unfurled from the highest window. Damen waved a wand and the other three watchtowers were invaded, one after another. There were no false floors, no hidden archers, no traps.

“It’s been abandoned,” Laurent observed, “But why?”

“Perhaps they hear the true king is back,” Nikandros said, however his voice still held caution.

Damen spurred his horse onwards, leading a group down the slope to the main garrison. The men moved systematically, kicking the doors open of every house, every entrance-way. They revealed disordered belongings, buckets kicked over and blankets dropped in heaps, and the silence, heavy and strange.

One of the men called out. They had found a barricaded door in the depths of one of the towers.

Damen dismounted, pushing Myrrha behind him so she was shielded by his bulk as they approached. He saw Laurent dismount and shadow him in the corner of his eye.

The hallway was long and tall, painted dark. The air shook with the rhymthic bash of the battering ram. Laurent jogged to keep up with him, unsheathing his blade.

The door gave way and the soldiers streamed in. They stopped.

Damen and Laurent pushed past them, taking in the scene.

A beautiful woman Laurent didn’t recognise sat on a reclining couch. She was dressed in a silken blue chiton which was abnormally long, split up the sides to reveal smooth, pale flesh. Her hair hung in crisp curls. She could have been a Veretian noblewoman, if not for the thick brows and dress.

The soldiers were looking to Damen for orders, but he didn’t seem ready to give them. He simply stared at the woman transfixed. He was breathing fast and short, and if he were anyone else, Laurent might have thought them afraid.

“You’re dismissed,” Laurent said, addressing the soldiers, “We can deal with this.”

The soldiers glanced at Damen like they were waiting for him to override the order. When he didn’t even look at them, they filtered out of the room and went to join the rest of the army.

“Hello, Damen,” The woman said, lifting herself languidly from the reclining couch.

Damen took a sudden step back, knocking into Myrrha. His eyes were wide.

“Who are you?” Laurent asked, taking a step towards her.

“Did he not tell you?” The woman said, tilting her head so her hair fell perfectly over one shoulder, “Well, I suppose he’s not telling much these days.”

“You didn’t answer me,” Laurent said, turning his sword over in his hands.

The woman smiled, like he had said something amusing. She rose to her feet, “I’m Damianos’ former lover. I’ve moved on to his brother now.”

Laurent glanced at Myrrha, who supplied: “I believe that’s Lady Jokaste, your Grace.”

“That’s Queen, to you,” Jokaste said, sharply. Myrrha shrunk away. Jokaste strode across the room, silk shifting. Her chiton shone like an exotic bird.

Damen took another step back, shoulders rising. He was shaking, his spine tensed. Jokaste stopped a hair’s breath from him. She lifted a hand and went to touch his jaw.

Laurent brandished the blade at her, “One move and I’ll run you through.”

Jokaste paused. Her hand hovered, almost touching Damen.

Damen looked sick. All colour had drained out of his face.

“Sit down,” Laurent ordered, jabbing her in the ribs enough to rib her chiton, just slightly. Jokaste relented. She turned and headed back. When she reached the couch she sat, demurely, one leg crossed over the other.

Laurent sheathed his blade, glancing back at Damen, “Are you alright?”

Damen didn’t move. He stood, frozen, where Jokaste had left him.

Laurent approached slowly and caught Damen’s wrist, squeezing it. “Damen?” He asked. Damen didn’t respond. There was no recognition in his eyes.

Gently, he reached and turned Damen’s face towards him, “Damen? Can you hear me?” Nothing. His pupils were blown wide, but his face was blank and his skin was cold and clammy. It looked as if his spirit had left and his body was empty.

“What did you do?” Laurent asked, rounding on Jokaste.

Jokaste raised an eyebrow, “I cut out his tongue.”

Laurent’s eyes narrowed. He turned, “Myrrha, take Damen back to his tent.”

Myrrha bowed. She reached up and pulled the wolf-skin further over Damen’s head to hide his blank expression. She pulled one of his arms around her shoulders and kept a hand on the small of his back to lead him discretely out of the chamber. Damen allowed himself to be led, obedient and silent.

Laurent felt burning in his chest and attempted to temper it. He waited until Damen had disappeared from sight and turned to Jokaste, trying hard to keep his voice level. “He told me Kastor cut out his tongue.”

“Kastor wanted to cut his head off,” Jokaste said, “I changed his mind. Kastor held Damen down while I relieved him of his tongue.”

Laurent narrowed his eyes, “Why?”

“You should know by now,” Jokaste said, “Sending him as a slave was the ultimate disgrace—but Damen wouldn’t see it that way. He’s a strong man with a strong will. He would only see it as a minor setback on the road to kingship, another thing to be overcome.”

“You had to do something he couldn’t get past,” Laurent guessed. His hand tightened on the hilt of his sword.

“Correct,” Jokaste said, coldly, “I have never led an army, but I know much of strategy. I cannot afford half-measures. I could either treat him well and keep him sweet, or defeat him so utterly I did not have to fear revenge.”

Laurent ground his teeth together. He glanced at the slit windows, where the daylight filtered through in strips. The serving women shifted, uncomfortable in the silence.

“Do you want to know what it was like?” Jokaste asked.

Laurent said nothing, fists clenching.

“It was like gutting a fish,” Jokaste said, voice rising, “He almost swallowed the knife, but he passed out a few minutes in. He went so white. There was so much blood, I thought I’d killed him”

“I know what you’re doing,” Laurent said, “You’re trying to make me angry.”

“And it’s working,” Jokaste said, leaning back.

Laurent closed his eyes and breathed slowly. He managed to relax his muscles enough to appear calm.

“You ought to let me go now,” Jokaste said, “He won’t be able to stand having me this close.”

“I _ought_ to kill you,” Laurent snapped.

Jokaste lifted her head, “That would undo him entirely.”

“You don’t know that,” Laurent said, darkly.

Jokaste watched him with cold blue eyes. She said nothing, her perfect face austere.

“We will decide what to do with you later,” Laurent stepped out of the chamber and motioned to a soldier who was waiting in the hallway, “Take her away.”

The soldier nodded and entered the chambers, followed by his squad. They shepherded the women up, brandishing spears but moving gently. A soldier collected a handful of spare clothing. Laurent turned on his heel and stalked out. There was a tightness in his chest, hard like anger.

“Send Damen my love,” Jokaste called after him. Her voice echoed dully around the hallway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> x  
> x  
> x  
> x  
> x  
> x  
> x  
> x  
> sorry for the ooc jokaste. I like evil ladies ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ 


	8. Listen

8.

Nikandros stalked through the evening camp, ignoring the nods of welcome and waving off the hurried questions. The camp was being set up hesitantly but busily. Everyone had expected a fight.

The King’s tent had already been set up halfway up the hill, surrounded on all sides by tents and tents. The banner flew, curling, above it, a vibrant red.

Nikandros circled around to the entrance and stopped suddenly.

The pretty blonde slave who had been tailing Damen for the last few weeks was stationed between the guards, blocking the entrance.

Nikandros motioned for her to move.

The slave bowed low, “My lord, I’m afraid I have been forbidden from allowing you entrance.”

“Forbidden?” Nikandros echoed, eyes narrowing.

“I apologise for the phrasing, my lord,” The slave said, hands folding behind her as she maintained the bow, “I was told it wasn’t wise for—”

Nikandros held up a hand, “He won’t even have to come outside and I’m sure I’ve seen him with worse. I just want to check on him.”

Nikandros took a step towards her.

“My lord,” The slave said, rising from her bow, “Damianos-Exhalted is... indisposed. His Majesty Laurent of Vere deemed it unwise for Damianos-Exhalted to receive guests.”

Nikandros scowled. She did not say injured, sick or even ailing. Indisposed. As if Damen were some fainting Veretian noblewoman.

Nikandros pushed past her and forced his way into the tent.

Inside it was dark. No torches had been lit. Nikandros heard the faint noise of cloth as the slave girl followed him in.

“Damianos?” He asked.

There was no reply. Nikandros waited for a moment for his eyes to adjust.

Damen sat, clustered with blankets. His head was turned away.

“Damianos?” Nikandros asked again, creeping towards him. He couldn’t explain the trepidation he felt.

Damen’s eyes were fixed on the floor. He was still wearing armour, although the wolf-pelt had been removed. His hair fell over his face, loosened from the ties he usually wore it in. His face was a mask.

Nikandros asked, fear prickling in his chest, “Can you hear me?”

Damen said nothing. There was no flicker of recognition in his face, not flutter of an eyelash, no evidence at all that he had heard.

Nikandros reach up and touched Damen’s face with the tips of his fingers. He felt old stubble. “Damen?”

Damen did not move.

Nikandros stared into his old friend’s dark eyes and saw them empty. It was as if he was looking into the eyes of a dead thing.

“How long has he been like this?” Nikandros asked, sharply, not moving from his side.

“A while, my lord,” The slave girl said, “Since he spoke with Lady Jokaste this afternoon.”

“How many people know?” Nikandros asked, straightening up.

“Only myself and Prince Laurent,” The slave girl said, “and you, my lord.”

“The prince has contained this, I see,” Nikandros said. It did not ease his mind. “And it was something Laurent himself caused, I’ll bet.”

“I… was there when it happened, my lord. I don’t know what caused it,” The slave girl said, “If you desire it, I can send a message to His Majesty.”

“No,” Nikandros finally dragged his eyes away from Damen’s face, “I’ll talk to the prince myself.”

 

*

 

“Who is it?” Laurent called out. His voice was cold and airy. He looked up from his writing desk when someone pushed past the guards.

Nikandros strode into the prince’s tent, drawing up a chair without invitation. He sat down and fixed Laurent with a dark look, “What did you do to him?”

“Me?” Laurent blinked rapidly, “I didn’t do anything to Damianos.”

“Somehow I find that hard to believe,” Nikandros said, icily.

“It doesn’t matter what you believe,” Laurent said, turning back to his writing, “It wasn’t me.”

“Then who was it?” Nikandros demanded.

“It was Jokaste,” Laurent said, dipping his quill into the ink pot and scratching out words.

“Jokaste?” Nikandros asked, grinding his teeth together, “The same Jokaste you keep fed and bathed in halls Damianos won for you? The Jokaste who has better conditions than half of my soldiers?”

“If you envy her so much, you can join her in captivity if you’d like,” Laurent said. He continued to write, his quill making faint noises on the parchment.

Nikandros snatched the parchment from under Laurent’s quill and tossed it onto the fire.

Laurent turned towards him, gaze dull. He regarded Nikandros as one might a misbehaving child. Nikandros tried hard to temper his anger. Throttling the prince of Vere would not help anybody, however much it would improve his mood.

“Have you seen him?” Nikandros asked, controlling his voice carefully.

“I’ve seen him lots of times,” Laurent said, “In fact—”

“Enough!” Nikandros snapped, “Answer the question.”

Laurent stilled. “No,” He said, “Not since we both saw Jokaste.”

“And that’s when this… happened?” Nikandros asked.

“Yes,” Laurent said.

“And...” Nikandros lifted his hands, searching for words, “And it just happened? Just like that?”

Laurent hesitated. He frowned, “It seemed to be seeing Jokaste again. He just went quiet and… retreated inside himself.”

“It’s her being this close,” Nikandros said, lowering his head. “It’s—he’s never lost before, not like this.”

Laurent opened his mouth to say something, but closed it again in silence. He watched Nikandros closely.

“To see her again, it’s like these last few months never happened and he’s back when...” Nikandros let out a sigh drawn deep from his lungs, “We have to let Jokaste go.”

Laurent straightened up, suddenly. Whatever part of him he’d shown Nikandros just then was shuttered off and the cold prince returned. “No,” He said, sharply, “We can’t.”

Nikandros frowned, “We don’t have a choice. I don’t like the thought of her escaping after this, but we can’t execute her. Damianos would not recover—she would haunt him.”

“And there’s no guarantee letting her go would help him either,” Laurent said, “We can’t lose Jokaste. She’s the only leverage we have over Kastor—leverage that we are desperate for. We need her.”

“More than you need Damen?” Nikandros asked.

Laurent’s eyes went hard, “Damen will recover. He must.”

“And if he doesn’t?” Nikandros pushed.

“He must,” Laurent repeated.

Nikandros watched him. His gaze was heavy and dark. “I now see how it was so easy for you to end up reaching your maturity without a single ally in your own government.”

“Are you done?” Laurent asked.

Nikandros stood. He left without a word.

 

*

 

Myrrha glanced up when she heard footsteps. She shook herself out of the daze she had fallen into and moved from foot to foot, trying to ease the chill which had sunk into his bones. The sun was low in the sky and the evening breeze was cold.

A head of bright blonde hair entered her vision and she almost jumped. “Your Majesty!” She said, bowing.

“Myrrha,” Laurent greeted.

“My apologises, your Majesty,” Myrrha said, “but Lord Nikandros came in—”

“I know,” Laurent said, waving his hand, “Don’t worry. I only came to see him.”

Myrrha nodded and stepped back, opening the tent flap for him. Laurent was taller than her so she stood on the balls of her feet, straining to keep it above his head.

Laurent stepped into the darkness.

Damen sat in the same place he had all day, propped up by strategically placed pillows and blankets and hidden books. Myrrha had, at some point in the day, managed to take his breast plate off and pulled a nightshirt over his head. His hair was carefully combed, far neater than it usually looked.

“Damen?” Laurent asked, padding forward, “Damianos, can you hear me?”

Damen did not move.

It had been what he was expecting, but somehow Laurent still felt disappointed. Still, Laurent approached him. He reached up a hand and hesitated, before running his fingers through dark curls. He felt the warmth of him through his scalp, the softness of his hair.

Damen did not move.

He was like a doll. Laurent knelt in front of him and his fingers found the hinge of the man’s jaw. He opened Damen’s mouth.

Damen hated people looking in his mouth. Even when he allowed it, his heart beat faster, he started to sweat. The heat of him would rise and his dark eyes would follow the observer like a trapped animal watching a predator.

Damen did not move.

Laurent stood up. His heart was heavy. “Your orders have not changed, Myrrha,” He said, “I don’t want anyone coming in while he is like this.”

Myrrha nodded.

Laurent started for the entrance.

“Wait,” Myrrha said, suddenly.

Laurent paused, looking back at her.

“Your Majesty, Damianos-Exhalted...” Myrrha paused, a little pink, “He… will need a bathe soon. I have done what I can by sending one of the guards for a pale of water, but I cannot send for many without raising suspicion.”

Laurent looked back at Damen. The dark red of his make-up was still visible in the folds of his eyelids and the sides of his nose. It cast a shadow over both eyes. “Then take him to the baths,” Laurent said, “Send the guards ahead to clear them.”

“I can lead him when he’s up, but I can’t lift him to his feet, Your Majesty,” Myrrha said, “Also… I fear what might happen in the baths, if I cannot lift him from the water.”

Laurent was silent.

Myrrha watched him, hands clasped behind her back.

“I… will sort something out, Myrrha,” Laurent said.

Myrrha bowed and darted ahead to lift the tent flat for him.

 

*

 

“Hey, wake up.”

Laurent opened his eyes.

Some enterprising servant had obviously sneaked into his tent during the night and changed the drapery from his brilliant blue starburst banner to the dark red silks he remembered from his childhood. He had not asked them to, but he found he appreciated it.

Laurent pushed himself out of bed, the silks tumbling into his lap. He blinked, groggily, “Who is it?”

Damen stood in his doorway. He had changed into full Veretian robes, a purple half-cape draped over one shoulder. Gold clasps gleamed in the low light. He looked much better, colour returned to his cheeks.

“You’re better,” Laurent said, smiling.

Damen lifted his hands. Two lit paper lanterns glowed from where Damen held them gently by the corners. They butted lightly at his hands, like they wanted to fly away.

“Paper lanterns?” Laurent asked, tiredly, “It’s the wrong season for them.”

“I thought they’d be fun,” Damen insisted. His voice tugged at something in Laurent, but he supposed it always strange to hear an Akielon who had spoken Veretian enough to lose the accent. “It’ll be like old times.”

“Still, this isn’t really the time,” Laurent said, “We’re supposed to be—”

Laurent went cold.

Damen watched him, perplexed. He tilted his head slightly, dark curls falling over one ear.

“I-I… I’m dreaming,” Laurent said, mostly to himself.

Damen laughed and asked, “Is that a yes?”

It was Damen’s laugh, recreated perfectly. The odd depth, the scratchy tone. It only made his speaking voice more incongruous, more disjointed. It was like hearing a horse bark.

The more Laurent looked, the more he picked apart. Damen’s hair was long, the way Damen had worn it when he was much younger. His eyes were the wrong colour, a few shades too light. The robes were complicated and constraining—the real Damen would never chosen to wear them. Besides, Damen didn’t know about the lantern festival, about how he used to spent weeks painting lantern after lantern and released them all at once, in the dead of night.

“Laurent?” Damen asked, and it was as if his voice was coming from very far away, “Is something wrong?”

Laurent stood too suddenly—and the world veered sideways.

All colour drained away. Damen, his paper lanterns, his Veretian clothing, his easy smile—all winked out of existence.

Laurent sat up. He was greeted with the dark stillness of his tent. Reality. The dim light of the moon made his world greyscale and deep blue. He swung his legs around the edge of the bed and stood unsteadily.

His feet ached. His chest was tight, like his ribs were shrunken.

The dream clung to him still. He felt it on him, like something in the corner of his eye. His heart hammered. Damen had spoken. That voice. Laurent breathed out unsteadily. It had been Auguste’s voice.

 

*

 

Laurent walked through the camp the next morning. He shouted at the soldiers who behaved and openly mocked and degraded those who didn’t, reducing them in front of a crowd. He stalked around like a hungry predator, snapping and growling at anyone in biting distance.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a familiar short figure who became the sole focus for his wrath.

Laurent charged across the camp clearing and snatched the girl’s elbow.

Myrrha was so surprised she almost dropped the bowl of leftovers she was carrying. Broth slopped over the side and splattered over her white chiton.

Laurent marched her over to the corner of the camp, away from eavesdroppers. He was so angry it was hard to form words. “What are you doing out here?!” Laurent demanded, face twisting into a snarl, “What if someone had come into the tent when you weren’t there?! What if he had been discovered?!”

Myrrha was almost shaking, “I-I am so sorry, Your M-majesty.”

“I thought I could trust you!” Laurent snapped, “I didn’t think you’d betray your King—for some cold leftovers!”

“It’s n-not for me, Your Majesty,” Myrrha said, bowing low. She cradled the bowl close to her so it wouldn’t spill, “It is for Damianos-Exhalted.”

“For Damianos?” Laurent said, frowning.

“I sent for food earlier but it was all hard foods,” Myrrha said, regaining a little of her colour, “I crushed some grapes, but he doesn’t have a tongue so I was worried he would choke if I tried anything else. I thought I could soak some hot broth into a sheet so I can give it to him without worrying about drowning him.”

Laurent straightened up. He released her elbow. His fingers had left red marks over her pale skin.

“I couldn’t think of a way to send for broth without arousing suspicion,” Myrrha said, “So I went to get some myself.”

All of the anger had drained out of Laurent. He was left empty and light-headed, “I see.”

Myrrha watched him nervously. Her bright blue eyes were wide.

“Go back to him,” Laurent ordered.

Myrrha bowed low and scurried off.

 

*

 

Laurent visited Jokaste’s chambers that night, when the moon was full and out and most of the camp were sleeping.

He dismissed every guard he saw, walking with a singular focus. His cloak billowed out behind him, a deep, midnight blue. He didn’t say a single word, shoving open doors and stalking the emptying halls.

After the two guards at Jokaste’s door were dismissed, only then did he pause.

And even then, only for a moment.

He threw the doors open.

Jokaste rose from her bed at the noise. Her hair was unbrushed and knotted, scattering across her back. She saw the light shining on the razor’s edge of Laurent’s sword and her eyes widened properly. She scrambled to her feet.

“Jokaste,” Laurent said, ice-cold.

Jokaste brushed her hair behind her. She sorted out her nightgown quickly, picking at the pale fabric. Her eyes were rimmed with pink. Woken up like this, clothes in disarray, she looked almost human.

“You don’t deserve to live,” Laurent said, raising his sword until the point rested level with her throat.

Jokaste opened her mouth.

“Don’t!” Laurent ordered, sharply, “If you say a single word I’ll slit your throat.”

Jokaste closed her mouth.

“I want you to disappear,” Laurent said, “I want it to be as if you have fallen off the face of the earth. I don’t want to hear rumours of you. I don’t want to hear you in any of the four countries, I don’t want to hear your name uttered ever again, by any man, woman or child. I want it to be as if you never existed.”

Jokaste swallowed, thickly.

“If my wish is not granted, Jokaste, if even the lowest peasant mentions hearing a tale of you...” Laurent lifted the tip of his sword, so it brushed Jokaste’s chin, “I will hunt you to the ends of the earth.”

Jokaste took a very careful step back so she was out of range of the sword tip and nodded.

Laurent held her gaze for a long moment. There was nothing but silence.

Then, in one fluid movement, Laurent turned and sheathed his sword. He stalked out of her chambers, leaving the door wide open. Behind him, he could hear the soft noise of bare feet wandering the rooms, the shift of fabrics as clothes were collected and piled together.

 

*

 

As soon as the sun came up, Laurent was back out of his tent. He had not slept much. His mind was churning like the rapids of a river.

He crossed the camp as the soldiers were still only stirring. They were startled into a polite greeting, but Laurent only acknowledged them with a nod. It was all he could do not to break into a run.

He reached the King’s tent and pushed past the guards without a word.

Laurent stood in Damen’s tent, blinking quickly.

Myrrha stirred immediately. She uncurled from where she lay at the foot of Damen’s bed on the slave pallet and shifted the cotton sheets from her shoulders.

“Your Majesty,” Myrrha said when she had shaken off the daze of sleep, “Good morning. Has something happened?”

“Yes,” Laurent strode around to Damen’s side and brought a hand to cup his face. He felt stubble under his fingers, a little longer than Damen usually kept it. “Jokaste has been sent away. She’ll be miles gone by now.”

Damen stared off into the middle distance.

“She’s gone, Damen,” Laurent insisted, “Jokaste is gone. She can’t hurt you now. She’s really gone.”

Laurent sat back on his heels, searching Damen’s face for something. There was no sign that he had heard, no sign that the ice in him was thawing.

There was nothing.

“Damen, please,” Laurent heard himself beg, “Damen, I—… please, can you hear me?”

Only silence answered him.

Laurent glanced up at Myrrha.

Myrrha send him a sorrowful look back, “I’m sorry, your majesty. He’s… far away, at the moment. We have to wait for him to make his way back.”

Laurent turned back to Damen. He ran his thumbs along his dark cheekbones, smearing a little of the paint that remained there. It felt like Laurent’s lungs were filled with water. Part of him wanted to slap Damen, to shake him and scream, another part wanted to curl around him like a mother with a sick child, to never let him go.

Laurent picked up Damen’s limp hands and held them as tightly as he could.

“Please, Damen,” Laurent begged, voice cracking, “What else do I have to do? Please… come back.”

 

*

 

“You called me?” Nikandros waited in the entrance to Laurent’s tent. His expression was not irritated, but it wasn’t quite warm either.

Laurent looked up from his desk and folded away his writing. “Yes, I did, come in.”

“Jokaste’s disappeared on us,” Nikandros said, taking a seat at the desk.

“Yes,” Laurent said, “Quite the mystery.”

Nikandros smiled slightly. It lost its humour quickly and he scrubbed a hand across his face, “And Damianos…?”

“Not yet,” Laurent said.

Nikandros nodded, face grim, “Why did you call me?”

“I need advice on these battle plans,” Laurent said, pushing a paper dense with writing towards Nikandros.

“You can’t honestly be thinking of continuing the war without him,” Nikandros asked, eyes narrowing, “Who will the men rally behind? Who will they follow?”

“You,” Laurent said, “They’re your men.”

“To what cause?” Nikandros asked, scowl deepening, “I don’t think they’ll rally behind killing your uncle and I don’t think I will either. I shouldn’t be surprised you’re already giving up on—”

“I’m not giving up on him!” Laurent snapped.

Nikandros blinked. It was the first real bit of emotion Laurent had shown him.

“I’m not giving up,” Laurent said, voice hot, “It’s the opposite. This is the one chance we have to give him the throne he deserves. We can’t wait until he’s ready to do it himself.”

Nikandros stared at him. He narrowed his eyes, but finally relaxed, leaning over to scoop the papers from Laurent’s desk. “Let’s have a look at them, then.”

 

*

 

Laurent found himself padding towards Damianos’s tent.

He only realised when he was only a few tents away. By then, most of the day’s activity was in full swing. Laurent could feel that the soldiers were becoming restless. The relentless pace they’d kept up over the last few months had shuddered to a sudden halt and the men sensed something was going wrong. For now, most enjoyed the break, but it wouldn’t be long until they started to get suspicious.

It only took a look from Laurent for the guards to step silently aside and let him in. Laurent picked up the hem of the tent flap gingerly.

All was quiet inside.

Myrrha had pushed Damen into the bed, layering him with blankets and cushions. Damen’s blank gaze was directed towards the floor. If it weren’t for the absence of anything in his eyes, he could have been simply lost in thought. Myrrha herself was sitting on the bed, back to the entrance. She hadn’t heard him enter, absorbed in her song.

“ _They are surely gods who speak to him, With steady voices—_ ” She sung, “ _A glance from him drives men to their knees, His sighs bring cities to ruin—_ ”

Myrrha’s voice was rough, but not unpleasant. It was clear she did not sing often. She sung quietly, like a lullaby.

“ _I wonder if he dreams of surrender,_ ” Myrrha continued, “ _On a bed of white flowers—?_ ”

Damen looked almost peaceful. If Laurent looked long enough, he could imagine him blinking long and longer, like he was about to fall asleep.

Trying hard not to make a sound, Laurent lifted the tent flap back up and ducked outside.

 

*

 

A few moments after the sun had sunk finally under the horizon, Myrrha appeared outside Damen’s tent. After glancing around, she located Laurent and beckoned him inside.

Myrrha darted to Damen’s side and worked an arm under him, pulling him upwards. The moment his full weight rested on her, her knees shook and Laurent looped an arm around the man to help her. Together they ease him to his feet.

Finally, Damen took his own weight. He swayed, and for a frightening second Laurent thought he might pitch forward onto his face, but he stilled.

Myrrha buzzed around him, fixing a few clasps of armour which had been hard to get to when he had been sitting down. When she was finished she stepped back.

“Go and clear the baths,” Laurent ordered, pulling Damen’s arm around him.

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Myrrha said, bowing. She hesitated.

“What is it?” Laurent asked, frowning.

“Well, clearing the baths,” Myrrha paused, “It will look like Your Majesty and Daminaos-Exhalted...”

“It’s fine,” Laurent said, waving a hand, “Most of the army already think he’s bedding me. All this will do is give us less chance of being interrupted.”

Myrrha went a little pink and bowed, before darting out of the tent.

Laurent nestled his hand in the small of Damen’s back. All he had to do was give a little push and the man would walk that way. Laurent kept the pressure in Damen’s back and the two of them pushed outside of the tent and continued on to the baths.

The camp was mostly empty of wandering soldiers; most of them had already filed away to the canteen. The stragglers that remained were sent away with a quick, dark look from Laurent.

Laurent was petrified someone would notice Damen’s state. He was walking differently, head drooping, shoulders too loose, none of the rolling lope Laurent had grown so used to. But nobody seemed to pay that much attention.

The baths at Karthas were dilapidated and crumbling in places, but were still serviceable enough that Laurent could see a long line of lazy soldiers being shooed out of the premises by Myrrha. Laurent slowed Damen down to wait until they were sure no more were coming out.

Myrrha waited at the bath’s entrance when they arrived. She had a stack of hot fresh white towels which she passed to Laurent as he came by.

“Guard the entrance,” Laurent said, “If it’s urgent, you come and get me yourself. Don’t let anyone else in.”

Myrrha bowed low.

Laurent led Damen inside.

The halls were tall and surprisingly clean white. Marble gleamed from every surface. Steam rolled through the hallway, even before they caught sight of the baths themselves.

In the changing room, Laurent pulled Damen to a halt. Laurent himself had dressed in the bare minimum, only tying enough up to avoid it all falling off him. He shed his own jacket and trousers first, leaving him only in a long white under-shirt.

Tugging at Damen’s clasps, Laurent threaded them through the buckles. He was careful with the leather. When the last one was loosened he lifted the breast-plate from Damen’s shoulders, resting it against the benches that lined the changing room.

Laurent started on the leather tunic which came away easily. Luckily Myrrha had not redressed him in the smaller, less obvious pieces of armour, only those that were visible from a distance. He unbuckled Damen’s belt and laid it next to the breast plate, along with the sheathed dagger and the sword.

Finally, Laurent came to the last layer, the cotton chiton, and hesitated. He had seen Damen naked before, but this felt different. This felt almost immoral, like he was looking at him while he slept.

Laurent took a step backwards and pulled his under-shirt over his head. The warm air prickled against his naked skin.

The cotton chiton fell away when Laurent pulled out the linch-pin, pooling around Damen’s feet. Laurent wadded it in his hands and set it with the rest of the clothing.

Damen allowed himself to be led towards the baths, head still bowed. He did not seem to notice that he was naked. The baths opened up before them as they walked. Water spread out before them, steam rolling from the surface. It was fed by an underground spring, buried somewhere in the earth.

Laurent’s heel found a wet patch of marble and he slipped.

His leg gave way and he fell—hard—on his hip, ankle crushed under him. He dragged Damen with him who fell, like a pillar of marble, on his chest.

Pain burned in Laurent’s hip. He shifted upwards, heaving Damen off him. Damen flopped over. Laurent knelt, shakily, and pulled Damen upwards.

They were an arm’s length from the edge of the bath. Laurent pushed Damen, gently, until Damen’s feet touched the warm water. Ripples rolled outwards, disappearing into the steam.

Laurent lifted himself up to push Damen further. Pain lanced through back, like needles had been buried in his spine, and his ankle felt like it was on fire. He pulled Damen closer to the edge, ribs burning.

Damen slipped into the water.

Laurent snatched his shoulders as he went down, heaving him up so his head didn’t touch the surface. Laurent edged closer to the edge, keeping Damen propped up while he eased himself into the water.

With one hand pushed against the centre of Damen’s chest, Laurent could keep him propped up while he dug through the toiletries that was stacked at the bath’s side.

He retrieved a cloth from the box and dipped it in the bath water before lifting it to the remains of the make-up over Damen’s eyes.

Damen’s eyes fluttered shut when Laurent got close.

Laurent froze, damp cloth hanging an eyelash length’s from Damen’s nose. It was just a reflex response, he told himself. It didn’t mean anything. He managed to get himself to move again after a moment.

The make-up came away easily. Red clouds formed in the bath water where Laurent washed his cloth.

Laurent reached back for the toiletries. He found a steel bowl which had held perfume at one point. filled it with warm bath water and poured it over Damen’s head.

Damen shook his head, sending flecks of water flying.

A drop of stinging perfume-water hit Laurent’s eye and he flinched. “Hey—” Laurent started.

Damen looked back at him, blinking quickly.

Laurent stared at him.

Damen stared back. He raised an eyebrow.

“You...” Laurent said, quietly, “You...”

Damen raised his other eyebrow too.

Laurent slapped him.

Damen reeled back, cheek bright red. He made a noise.

“You—!” Laurent snapped, “You— _bastard!_ I really thought you were gone!”

Damen rubbed his hurt cheek, frowning. He tilted his head, dark curls covering an ear.

“I thought—,” Laurent’s voice cracked, “I really thought...” Hot, angry tears gleamed in Laurent’s bright eyes.

Damen kissed him.

Laurent made a soft noise. His hands had started to shake. Damen folded his hands into his own, stilling them.

Damen broke the kiss and drew Laurent close, until they were chest to damp chest. Laurent buried his face into Damen’s neck.


	9. rattle your chains

9.

When word passed around that their prince was back to full health, the knife-edge tension nobody had been brave enough to give a name to was swept away, and replaced with a giddy kind of relief. The feeling was so infectious and pervasive that Nikandros decided to lean into it.

One last day of rest was announced, curtained by heavy drinking and revelry. This was very well received.

It was not something Laurent would have recommended, but he couldn’t deny the gratitude he saw in the troops. Tragedy had a way of drawing people together, and Laurent caught the rare sight of a drunk Veretian soldier being carried on the shoulders of a stumbling Akielon.

The chill of the night managed to thread through the camp as Laurent walked. He had ordered less fires to be built than usual—to minimise the risk of people rolling into them while intoxicated.

Damen stumbled into the night air, dragging Makedon with him.

Laurent broke into a jog.

“Prince of Vere!” Makedon greeted, hoisting Damen up so he stood up straighter, “I think our friend has had quite enough.”

Damen yelped something, but it was too garbled to understand.

“Thank you, Makedon,” Laurent bowed his head slightly, “I’ll take him back to his tent.” Laurent slipped Damen’s arm around his shoulder and Makedon eased Damen’s weight onto the Prince. Laurent wrapped an arm around Damen’s trunk-like middle. If he walked oddly, his flanks pushing against Damen’s, he could keep the man’s back straight, but he could do nothing for his lolling head.

“Afterwards, you could join us,” Makedon offered, cheeks flushed a permanent pink, “I would like to see you unwind for once.”

“I’m afraid I can’t,” Laurent said, and found himself with the odd urge to smile, “One of us has to be able to crawl out of bed tomorrow.”

Makedon laughed, loud and booming, and stumbled back towards the drink tent.

Laurent turned Damen around and led him back down the hill.

It was strangely dissimilar to when he had been leading Damen around while the man was in a stupor. Drunk, Damen was not half as obedient. He prodded Laurent in the spine, shoved him into a tent pole, and, twice, broke free of Laurent’s aid and staggered into some revelling soldiers.

By the time Laurent entered the half of the camp that were barred from drinking for safety reasons, Damen had calmed down. Laurent still had to wrestle him back into the tent, a feat that would have been impossible if Damen were a wine sac or two more sober.

When they stepped into the darkness of the tent, Damen admitted defeat and in a heel-turn started pulling Laurent rather than pushing against him. The sudden shift in direction caused them both to stagger onto the bedroll and collapse.

For a long moment, the pair just lay like that, Laurent spread out over the Akielon prince. Damen smelled like griva, a thin, anti-septic smell. It smelled more one of like Paschal’s emetics that anything Laurent would willingly drink.

Damen said something.

“What?” Laurent asked.

Damen shoved Laurent off the bed.

Laurent landed with a thump. He stood up, only slightly annoyed, and resettled next to Damen.

Damen stayed lying down on the bedroll, looking up at Laurent with big dark eyes, and repeated himself. His voice was slurred and sounded surprisingly soft.

“I don’t—...” Laurent shook his head.

Damen rolled his eyes dramatically. He pointed to his ears in an exaggerated mime.

“I’m listening!” Lauren snapped.

Damen repeated himself for a third time, sounding annoyed.

There was a silence.

“Ah,” Laurent said, slowly, “I understand now. I… agree?”

Damen nodded, scowl easing. He blinked slowly and his whole body seemed to sink into the fabric of the bedroll as he relaxed. Laurent stood up again and pulled Damen around so his head rested where it was supposed to and his legs could be tucked under the covers.

Laurent turned to leave—and Damen’s hand shot out and caught his wrist.

Laurent glanced back at him.

Damen frowned up at him, dark eyebrows knitting together. He said something, voice lilting in a surprised question, gesturing to the space in the bedroll next to him.

“Oh,” Laurent said.

Damen watched him closely.

Slowly, Laurent knelt on the bedroll, easing himself next to Damen. The bedroll was a standard issue and really too small for two people, so when he pushed his legs under the covers he had to thread them through Damen’s thighs. It was shockingly warm.

Damen pulled Laurent closer, until his head was tucked under Damen’s chin. Damen blew the strands of blonde hair out of his face and settled down, eyes slipping shut. Laurent shifted his head until his nose wasn’t squished against Damen’s throat and breathed deeply. He closed his eyes.

 

*

 

Laurent was actually a very tactile person when he allowed himself to be.

He responded to safe touch well, Damen noticed. When they weren’t around troops, he allowed himself to be manhandled with surprising dignity, a light flush coming to his high cheekbones. Laurent leaned into casual touches, unconsciously inclining towards him when they leaned over the desk, velvet sides tickling Damen’s bare underarm.

Damen had always found Laurent’s posture stiff, arms too close to his sides, back too straight. It took a cruel world to force Laurent to be insular.

Over the next few days, Damen became closer. It wasn’t a large change—Damen would touch the inside of his elbow when he wanted to communicate something important, he would leave his hand on his shoulder a fraction longer after greeting him or put a hand between his shoulder blades to get his attention.

Laurent looked at him, not warm but close, and relaxed slightly.

 

*

 

Nikandros shouting coming from the king’s tent and dropped what he was doing and jogged over.

Stepping through the tent flaps, he was greeted by a familiar sight. The Prince of Vere was hunched over the desk, leaning on piles of smeared inky paper as he glared at Damianos. Damianos himself was sitting a little further along the desk, a hard look in his eyes.

“Ah, Nikandros,” Laurent said, “We’ve decided to continue south through the main towns using mostly cavalry backed by archers.”

Damen grunted quietly.

Laurent spun around, “I know you don’t agree with that, the fact is that is just not reasonable to do what you recommend.”

Damen made a face.

“No, siege engines are not worth making!” Laurent said.

Damen made a different face.

“The resulting damage they do to whatever forts we capture makes the effort redundant,” Laurent snapped, “Besides transporting the timber is an extra drain on the men that they don’t need.”

Damen made a gesture.

“Enough!” Laurent’s voice started to rise again, “We cannot rely on the landscape providing enough timber either—and even if we could, we would have to have waste weeks preparing the wood and even more time constructing the engines—which becomes a huge risk if someone set them alight!”

Nikandros glanced between Laurent and Damen. Damen was making no notes and not enough gesture to build a response from. Either they had simply had the argument so many times that they were retreading familiar grounds, or Laurent knew what Damen would say.

Damen made another face, and Laurent exploded back into argument.

Nikandros ducked out of the tent.

 

*

 

Morning came low and warm, the sunlight glowing through the vermilion fabric, turning the insides into a million shades of pale red. It was like they were in the stomach of some giant beast. The air was warm.

Damen slept, buried in his pillow. Black curls crowded his forehead, soft like downy feathers. His mouth was slightly open, and there was a hint of teeth visible. He looked peaceful.

Laurent moved slowly and unwound the leather strap from his hair, letting it fall, so he could properly relax. He kept his breathing quiet and even, as if any disturbance might wake him. He

Slowly, Damen’s eyelashes fluttered. He opened his eyes and took a deep breath, as if it was his first.

“Good morning,” Laurent said, “Did you sleep well?”

Damen stared at him.

His dark eyes were wide enough to see white all around them. His whole body was frozen. He went very still.

Then, just as suddenly, Damen forceably relaxed, eyes closing. He sat up suddenly, kicking off the bed sheets and standing.

“Is something wrong?” Laurent asked, leaning across the bed.

Damen shook his head, but there was still a tension in his spine. He dressed quickly and left, even though it was hours before any of his tasks needed doing.

Laurent watched him go.

Laurent started pulling on his own clothes, a task that was long and mundane enough for his thoughts to stew inside him. Damen had been, for half a second, terrified. Laurent threaded the laces through his trouser leg with practised ease, pulling the fabric taut over his calf. It was something that had happened before, at seemingly random moments, Damen would look over at him and...

With one lace between his teeth and the other in his left hand, Laurent knotted the fastening at his right wrist shut. He started work on the front of his jacket, lacing it shut.

The fear had been something Laurent had once revelled in. Now it was something that made him feel sick. Laurent flicked his hair back and dug his brush out of his truck.

Laurent scooped up the hand mirror from his bedside table, but then he paused. He tilted the mirror, watching his reflection move. It was too dark to see his eye-colour. His golden hair looked paler in the dim light, tumbling over his shoulders in gentle, half-waves.

He looked like Jokaste.

Laurent breathed heavily, dragging the brush through his hair. He rolled the revelation around in his mind. He knotted the leather tie around his hair so it hung in its usual low ponytail and stared at it suspiciously.

Slowly, he finished the rest of his clothing and headed outside. He had some more things to arrange. The camp had only settled in the new location yesterday and later that day they were due another move, so the camp was only set up with the bare minimums. The bustle was oddly comforting.

However much he tried to take his mind off it, the thought of seeing Jokaste in the mirror would not leave him, so just before lunch, he went back to his and Damen’s tent and retrieved the mirror again.

Laurent drew his dagger from its pouch.

With the mirror perched on the cabinet, he gripped the bulk of his hair and pressed the edge of the knife to it. He dragged the blade through his pony tail, working hard. It was difficult to cut, falling away in golden threads and clumps. Cut hair prickled in the back of his neck.

Finally, his blade sliced through the last bit of hair.

Laurent turned his head, watching the mirror. His hair hung around his ears, messy and uneven, and totally unlike Jokaste’s perfect waves. He smiled.

 

*

 

Nikandros saw him next and made an odd face. Laurent allowed himself to be ushered into the nearest tent.

“Who cut your hair, your Majesty?” Nikandros asked, raising a dark eyebrow.

“I did,” Laurent said, sitting down on the nearest seat.

Nikandros’ expression telegraphed that he wasn’t the least bit surprised, “Would you allow me to… tidy it up a little?”

Laurent hesitated, “I am… reluctant to go much shorter. Would it be possible to tidy it up without trimming it much?”

“I’m afraid that ship has sailed, your Majesty,” Nikandros said. Laurent nodded, steadying himself and Nikandros retrieved a pair of silver clippers.

Nikandros started to clip away at the golden locks.

“I’m going to go closer to the scalp in the back,” Nikandros said, “I only know how to cut hair in the Akielon way.”

“That’s fine, Nikandros,” Laurent said, “I am fairly sure nobody will mistake me for Damianos.”

Nikandros made a noise of agreement.

More golden hair fell down Laurent’s back, into the various complicated folds of his clothing, where he likely would never retrieve them but would feel them for weeks. Nikandros paused often, consulting a hand mirror carefully before snipping a little more away.

In the mirror, Laurent watched his expression grow more and more grim as hair continued to disappeared.

Finally, Nikandros clipped away the last uneven strand at the base of Laurent’s neck and stepped away to appraise his work.

Laurent looked at his own scowl, “My ears...”

Nikandros nodded sombrely.

Laurent reached up and tugged his pale lobes. Both of them were pale as cooked egg whites and stuck out from his head at right angles.

“It is a good thing to have a king with big ears,” Nikandros said, voice impressively even, “It only means… you can better listen to the concerns of your subjects.”

“Thank you, Nikandros,” Laurent shot him a dark look and even Nikandros’ impressive control threatened to waver as he went a little pink from repressed laughter, “Next time I will actually ask for your opinion, however.”

“I understand, your Majesty,” Nikandros gave a little bow.

Laurent turned the mirror around, “Where is Damianos?”

 

*

 

Damianos was sparring with some of this lieutenants, it turned out. He floored one after the other, throwing them over his shoulder and scattering them. Sweat glistened over Damianos’ round shoulders. Dust clouded the arena, swirling in Daminaos’ heavy breathing.

“Damianos!” Laurent called, standing at the edge of the dirt arena. He folded his arms behind his back.

Damianos dragged the back of his hand over his mouth, wiping sweat from his top lip. He turned, and when he saw Laurent, his eyes lit up. Laurent was used to having eyes on him, but this felt different. As he watched Damianos approach, heat prickled in the back of his neck.

Damianos lifted his hands, in what Laurent thought was going to end in an embrace—and grabbed his ears.

Laurent squawked, trying to bat him off, while Damianos wiggled his big ears mercilessly.

“Let go!” Laurent snapped and Damen relented, laughing, and released him. He pulled Laurent closer, cooing softly as Laurent pouted, and pressed kisses to his furrowed, indignant brows.

 

*

 

When Laurent returned to his tent, he bumped into Myrrha, who was returning clean washing.

“You Majesty,” Myrrha chirped, before her eyes became transfixed on his new hair. She noticed she had started staring and flushed, bowing again.

“Relax Myrrha,” Laurent said, tiredly, “after what I’ve heard today I doubt another poor opinion of my hair would change much.”

“Not at all, your Majesty!” Myrrha blushed, “I was simply thinking… it looks like lion fur at the back.”

Surprised, Laurent put a hand to the back of his head. The hair was soft and smooth. It was as long as cat fur and felt like the mink pelt he would were during ceremonies in Vere, “Thank you.”

 

*

 

Nikandros sat down in the king’s tent, a grim look on his face. His thirty-fifth birthday had just passed and he seemed to wear every single of those long years on him now, eyes shadowed and shoulders weighed. He rubbed at an ache on his thigh, sighing deeply.

“It’s not good news, is it?” Laurent guessed, voice heavy. Damen watched Nikandros with dark eyes.

“The Kyroi of Sicyon pledged his allegiance to Damianos,” Nikandros said, “But half of his generals deserted him before he could leave to join us. He’s worried that civil war might break out in his province.”

Laurent nodded, “We knew there would be men who believed Kastor’s lies.”

Nikandros said nothing.

“There are men that still believe Damianos is dead or maybe worse, alive and wicked-natured,” Laurent said. He scrubbed a hand through his hair, sighing deeply. “I think we ought to answer the herald. I don’t see any other way.”

Nikandros gritted his teeth.

Damianos’ head jerked upwards and he shot Laurent a confused look, _Herald?_

“Oh,” Laurent’s eyes went wide.

“You didn’t tell him?” Nikandros asked, voice hard.

“It was while you were indisposed,” Laurent said, “The herald started that, should I come to Ios to stand trial for my crimes and be proved innocent, all that was mine would be returned to me. The herald… also accused you of patricide.”

Damen’s eyebrows knitted further together. He pulled a sheet of paper closer and dipped his quill in ink. _My father died naturally, from an illness._

Laurent’s mouth went dry. It was something he had figured out months ago, such that it felt like an old wound. He had meant to tell Damen, but the opportunity had never presented itself, and besides, he had been lulled into the fanciful idea that the man could read his thoughts. “Damen...”

Damen’s eyes flitted across Laurent’s face. He recognised the tone.

“I have no proof,” Laurent said, carefully, “but I believe it highly likely that Kastor orchestrated King Theomedes’ death. The King’s death, the coup against you… it seems to fit too well to be coincidental.”

Damen watched him for a long moment. His jaw worked, grinding his teeth together minutely. He nodded.

“Damianos...” Nikandros began, voice low.

Damen waved a hand to send him away.

Nikandros hesitated, mouth still open.

“You are dismissed, Nikandros,” Laurent said, sharply, and this got through to him. Nikandros bowed and left the tent. It was much harder to ignore a spoken order than a non-verbal one.

Damen clasped his hands together.

There was a tremor building in his shoulders like a taut string being brushed against. His knuckles where white. Laurent felt as if the air thinned. It felt like there was a great weight in the tent with them, a terrible repressed anger.

“Do you want me to leave?” Laurent murmured.

Damen shook his head.

Laurent settled by his side. He was mindful of how close he became—he had a feeling Damen did not want to be touched.

Damen let out a deep, shuddering, breath.

Something was cracking in him, something softening. The hard knot of his heart was a weight in him, but the rest of him was falling apart.

Damen put his head in his hands, breathing shallowly. He pressed his wrists into his eye sockets, massaging his eyes.

Laurent hesitated. He wanted to put an arm around him, but he didn’t want to disturb the fragile peace. He felt like Damen’s mood was teetering on a knife edge, between anger and despair.

Then, abruptly, the storm passed.

Damen’s shoulders relaxed and he removed his hands from his eyes. He leaned heavily on the table. His breathing returned to normal.

 _What other news is there?_ Damen wrote.

“Kastor spreads many lies,” Laurent said, “He maintains you are a pretender to the throne, that your body still rests in Ios, to those who would be loyal to you. To those in his faction, he accuses you of patricide and deceitfulness.”

Damen nodded, tiredly.

“These are only words,” Laurent said, “Rumours.”

Damen shrugged one shoulder.

Laurent swallowed, “Also… my uncle has sent me a missive. He says that he has Jokaste’s child, and he is willing to exchange her for him.”

Damen said nothing. He breathed deeply.

“There are other ways to return him to us,” Laurent pushed, “I am sure he will not harm the child, not while he is a valuable bargaining chip.”

Damen reached across the table and pulled a piece of parchment from the pile that rested there. He dipped his quill in ink again.

 _They believe I am a pretender,_ He wrote, _because not many men have seen my face, even as crown prince._

Laurent nodded.

 _Then,_ He wrote, _I doubt they will recognise Jokaste either._

*

 

“I’m not sure this is going to work,” Laurent said, “She looks nothing like her.”

Myrrha did indeed look nothing like Jokaste. Besides the obvious shared complexion, Myrrha had an apple-shaped, soft-cheeked face with an upturned nose, where Jokaste’s face was all hard lines and high cheekbones with a sharp, straight nose. Myrrha held herself with her shoulders and head lowered, her hands folded behind her back. Jokaste walked in a way that made crowds part for her.

Damen grunted, dabbing dark colour along Myrrha’s cheeks. He dipped his brush back into the paint palette and cautiously ran the tip under Myrrha’s eyes.

Myrrha tried hard not to flinch away from the brush. Her eyelashes batted.

Damen leaned back to admire his work.

Laurent leaned over his shoulder, “It’s… better.”

Myrrha flushed under the make-up. She smiled weakly.

“Don’t smile,” Laurent said, “It’s out of character.”

Myrrha’s smile vanished. Her shoulders rose a little.

Damen dabbed the paint brush over Myrrha’s chin to lighten it a shade. He painted her cheekbones over. He made an affirmative noise and stepped back.

“I don’t know,” Laurent said, “Jokaste is much taller than her too.”

Damen gripped Myrrha under the armpits and hoisted her into the air. He held her there, as if she weight nothing, her feet dangling in the air. Myrrha went pink.

Laurent frowned at her.

Damen made another affirmative noise. He lifted one shoulder in a half-shrug. Damen sent her down and Myrrha took an unconscious step back.

“It will have to do,” Laurent decided.

Damen nodded and began to pack away his paints.

“Your Highness,” Myrrha said, suddenly, bowing, “Excuse me for interrupting.”

“Speak,” Laurent said, eyebrows raised.

“There is… one more thing we must do, so I can be mistaken for Jokaste,” Myrrha said, quietly.

She lifted a thin, white arm, hand curling around metal. Laurent followed her gaze—to the slave shackles she wore around her wrist.

 

*

 

Five thick golden rings sat in the hammock of sack fabric between Myrrha’s hands. She held the fabric gently and set them down on the black smith’s rough-hewn table, between the hammers and metal shavings. They gleamed. Myrrha had arranged them so they would not close accidentally, teeth inside teeth.

It struck Laurent as a cruel joke, to bestow such raw wealth on to those so violated they could never use it for themselves.

Myrrha ran a finger over the smooth metal. Without their weight, she seemed smaller, thinner. Without taking her eyes off them, she asked: “Where can I leave them? I’ll need them again when Damianos-Exhalted is King.”

Laurent paused. He gave her a very strange, careful look.

Myrrha tensed, “I did not want you to think I had forgotten my place, your Highness.”

Laurent stood up, suddenly. “Myrrha...”

Myrrha shrunk back a little.

“Myrrha, this is not simply for appearances,” Laurent said, “This ends your service.”

Myrrha stared up at him. She didn’t even seem to blink.

“This is not a trick,” Laurent said, “When we travel to Ios, it will be foreign, enemy territory. I do not want to endanger you like that unless it is of your own volition.”

Myrrha glanced down at the shining golden hoops. She looked faint.

“You are free, Myrrha,” Laurent said, sharply, “Truly and completely.”

Myrrha seemed to snap out of her daze. She pushed herself off the table and her bare feet hit the floor with a slap. Colour rose to her cheeks and she beamed—but just as suddenly, it all drained away.

“What is it?” Laurent asked.

“It’s nothing, your Highness,” Myrrha said, head dropping, “I know—I know I shouldn’t ask for more than is given, and truly I am grateful—but my sister, I haven’t seen her in years—but instead of me, could she… could you free her?”

Laurent stared down at her, wide-eyed.

Myrrha shrunk back even further, back bowed, “I-I didn’t mean—of course—”

“Myrrha,” Laurent said, cutting through her ramblings.

Myrrha would not look at him. Her long hair was in disarray, falling over her face.

“I have discussed this with Damianos,” Laurent said, touching her lightly on the shoulder, “When he is King, he will free all the slaves.”

Myrrha stared at him.

Slowly, her expression changed. She stood straighter, her shoulders relaxing. Her cheeks coloured. Her eyes shone bright with tears. Launching forward, Myrrha wrapped her arms around Laurent’s middle. She pressed her face into the soft velvet of his jacket.

Laurent wrapped his arms around her, petting her hair lightly as she shook with sobs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> x  
> x  
> x  
> x  
> x  
> x  
> x  
> x  
> x  
> I made some memes for this chapter....  
> [ [the response to Laurent cutting his hair](https://78.media.tumblr.com/97ec80d5457be82ce2792345368571d1/tumblr_pesar7AJoI1vgix81o1_640.png) ]  
> x  
> [["I believe it highly likely Kastor orchestrated King Theomedes' death"](https://i.imgur.com/qAG9jP8.gifv)]  
> x  
> x  
> x  
> also read the fic by sunsmasher down below... it is a masterpiece.... :,)

**Author's Note:**

> Resources & insp: 
> 
> \+ [I have no tongue, AMA](https://www.reddit.com/r/IAmA/comments/ifflf/i_have_no_tongue_ama/) (reddit thread)   
> \+ [A Silent Voice](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/A_Silent_Voice_\(film\)) (film)  
> \+ [The Diving Bell and the Butterfly](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Diving_Bell_and_the_Butterfly) (book)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [reduplication](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15934124) by [sunsmasher](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunsmasher/pseuds/sunsmasher)




End file.
